


Sound of Silver

by michelel72



Series: Near Point [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Age Regression/De-Aging, Applied Phlebotinum, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Kindness, M/M, Magical Mcguffin, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 96,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelel72/pseuds/michelel72
Summary: Magic isn't real, but someone has somehow developed a "magical" method to turn people into their teenage selves temporarily.  When seventeen-year-old Jonathan thereby finds himself in the future, his suddenly older sister and a future friend look after him for a few days, while he learns about the man he will become.
Series: Near Point [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571716
Comments: 46
Kudos: 19





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Style, pt.1: This story is written in the style of a "deaging" fanfic for an obscure non-magical canon; neither knowledge of nor familiarity with the "canon" is necessary.
> 
> Alpha: Many thanks to [VerdiWithin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdiWithin) for feedback, suggestions, and encouragement.
> 
> Triggers/warnings/content notes: I do not make any representation about the absence of any non-Archive warnings. For questions about triggers, squicks, day-ruiners, or any other content you would not want to encounter without notice, please message me here or at Dreamwidth. (I don't want to try to list things and miss any.) I'm happy to answer questions. Please stay safe.
> 
> Title: Title is from the song by LCD Soundsystem.
> 
> Schedule: The full work is written. I plan to post one chapter per day until all 27 chapters are posted.
> 
> Style, pt. 2: I've put fairly extensive notes about the nature of this work in the end notes, so that those who find them useful can access them easily but folks who don't want the reading experience colored by them can avoid them. Check there if you want to know about things like tell-vs.-show balance, the history of this project, or why I'm posting it in this particular form.

Jonathan lands _hard_ , mostly on his left shoulder. He rolls a bit from there and finds he's lying on the floor, dazedly looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Something is crashing somewhere, and a woman is yelling _Jack!_ , but Jonathan's head is too foggy for him to do anything about any of that yet. He blinks, trying to focus.

Then someone is standing over him. "Oh, _fuck_ ," the same woman's voice says. Her tone sounds angry, and not just from using _that_ word, but not really at _him_ , exactly. Then she starts talking to the Jack person again, so Jonathan tries to figure out if he can sit up.

That would be easier if the room would just stop spinning for a second.

" _Davis_ ," the woman says urgently, crouching down right next to Jonathan.

He wrenches his attention over to her. "Yes, ma'am?" Well, he tries to say that, and it mostly comes out, but it sounds slurred to his own ears.

She doesn't tell him off for mumbling. "I know you're confused right now. I'll explain in a few minutes, I promise. Right now, I need you to _stay here_ , okay? Just until we secure the building."

Being told to keep still is actually a relief for once. Jonathan tries to nod, realizes that hurts, and forces out another, "Yes'm."

She glances over her shoulder and then back down at him. "One more thing. Right now, there's a gun on your belt." He feels his eyes going _huge_ at that. "You _do not_ touch it. All right?"

She waits for him to manage a shaky, "Y-yes, ma'am," and she holds his gaze for another second to be sure, and then she nods and hurries away.

There's a lot of shouting and crashing in the distance, but Jonathan seems to be on the ground — no, floor — behind some kind of … store counter, maybe? That could be the edge of a register, way up there. So he can't see what's going on from where he is, but at least he's not in danger from anything, probably.

Which is good because he has no idea what's going on, at _all_. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got there, or what all the yelling is about. He can't even remember what he was doing before a couple of minutes ago, which is even scarier. An ache of worry nibbles at his stomach.

But the woman said she knew he was confused, so there must be some kind of reason for that. And she took the time to tell him even though she was obviously busy. So he'll try not to panic yet.

He thinks for a second about sitting up, but he's not sure it's safe. Probably no one can see him here behind the counter, but the woman said he has a gun, and he doesn't know exactly where that is or if its safety is on. Or even if it has one. Or why he has a gun at all — why does he have a gun? And he doesn't quite dare to feel around for it, even just to make sure it's not going to fall on the floor or something if he moves, because Granddad would absolutely disown him for even _thinking_ about touching a gun without supervision or training.

He's not comfortable — lumpy somethings are between his back and the floor — but he can live with it. So he just waits, his brain spinning uselessly in confusion.

The woman finally comes back. She looks a little amused and then a little worried when she sees him. "You okay? Looked like you hit the ground pretty hard."

Jonathan's shoulder aches, but he's pretty sure it's not broken or anything, and the headache is down to more of a dull throb. "I'm okay," he agrees.

"Think you can sit up?" she asks, putting out a hand to help. So it must be safe to do that after all. He accepts her hand to be polite, even though he could do it himself. The headache spikes for a moment but then eases off again.

She crouches down once he's upright, keeping herself on his level. She looks about Mom's age, but she moves more like someone a little younger. He hadn't really seen it at first because she's a woman and she's black and she's not in a uniform and his brain is full of fog, but she's definitely some kind of cop. She's wearing a suit with trousers instead of a skirt, which maybe makes sense for a cop, but she's wearing sneakers with the suit, which is confusing. They look expensive.

"Okay, first, sorry, but I need to secure your weapon," she tells him. "Then I have to ask you a few quick questions, and then I'll explain, all right?"

Jonathan can't really object, even though he desperately _wants_ the explanation first, so he just says, "Yes, ma'am," again. She doesn't laugh at him or anything, but she's amused about something.

Whatever it is, she just helps him get the holstered gun off his belt. _Why_ is there a gun on his belt? And something's wrong with his clothes, but just trying to look at his tie more closely to figure out what's wrong with the color is making him dizzy again. His belt seems strangely loose when he refastens it at the same wear point. He can't focus on any one question when everything's so confusing.

"Now. You know your name, right?"

Oh, she can do the focusing for him. "Jonathan Davis," he confirms.

She's just a tiny bit surprised about his answer, for some reason, but she keeps going. "And your age?"

"Seventeen. Junior at St. Catherine's," he adds, in case that's one of her questions, because she doesn't need to go so _slow_.

"And the year?"

Jonathan opens his mouth to answer and _can't_. He should know this, it's easy, everyone knows the year, but for some reason it won't come to him. He can't even remember this morning — he must have been at home, he must have had breakfast with everyone, but every school morning feels distant and blurred together.

The woman just waits for his answer. She expected this one to be hard for some reason, he can see, but she doesn't get all worried or angry or anything. She just waits for him to work it out.

In the end he has to figure it out from his age, which is annoying, because he's never been good at doing math in his head and seventeen is not an easy number to do it with. "'85," he answers finally, hesitantly. He has no idea what month, but if he's seventeen and he's a junior — and he's positive about both of those — "First half."

The woman sighs a little and then takes a deep breath. "Okay. Now I have to explain, which … look. This is going to sound … impossible, or 'crazy', or like a movie or something, and I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry I have to say it, honestly. But just don't get all panicked and run off or anything. Deal?"

Where would he go, when he doesn't even know where he is? "... Yes?"

That gets a quick smile from her. "1985 sounds about right for your age, but right here, right now, it's actually 2014."

Jonathan stares at her. "But that's —" Impossible and crazy, just like she said, but more like a comic book than a movie. It's all too huge and too _weird_ for him to take in, so he just asks, "How?"

She sighs a little again. "Magic."

Oh, come _on_. "I'm not a little kid!" Jonathan protests.

She just moves her hands in a kind of shrug. "Honestly? I have no idea what it really is. The people who came up with it call it magic, and science hasn't figured it out yet, so … we're just going along with calling it magic for now. But _ironically_."

Jonathan has no idea what that's supposed to mean. He thinks it's a sort of a joke she's making to herself. Other than that, though, she really seems to mean everything she's saying.

Maybe _she's_ crazy? Which is a scary thought, since she now has two guns and there's no one else here to help him. He can hear people moving around somewhere else in this building, but no one seems to want to interrupt them.

The fact that he has no idea where he actually is might be a tiny point in her favor. "So … I time-traveled?" he asks, not bothering to mask his doubt.

"Actually, no. I mean, from your perspective, it's basically the same thing, but really, some twerp in a dorky cape zapped the 'now' version of you and turned you into — well, _this_ version of you. It'll wear off," she assures him. "There've been … probably a few dozen cases by now, and as far as I know, everyone was back to their real ages within a few days."

"So … you think I'm not _real_?" He feels completely real, but — well, how would he know? And he still doesn't know where he is or what the date should even be, so … what if she's right?

"No, you're real," she says. "I mean, if we checked your blood right now, you'd have the same DNA, and you're definitely about seventeen years old. Something about … the telomeres, I think? I don't know exactly what it is, but they can tell. Your skills, your brain, all your memories — you won't have anything from after _this,_ " she says, gesturing to him in a general way, "until it wears off. You're temporarily, but very definitely, your teenage self right now."

He might as well talk about it in her terms, because he doesn't have a better explanation yet. "So … do we just wait for me to … grow back up?"

"Well, basically, yes, but not by just sitting here. We'll get you set up somewhere safe. But first — we've all started carrying notes to ourselves, just in case this happens to us, so we need to find yours." She starts to reach towards him but checks herself. "Try your inside jacket pocket first. Your ID's in there."

He looks down at himself and freezes. "These — these aren't my clothes." He had somehow thought he was wearing his school uniform, but even though he _is_ in a jacket and tie, everything about his clothes is wrong. He's never seen any of them before, and they're too big besides. Not ridiculously so, but the belt is too loose and the extra fabric around his shoulders makes the sleeves hang down his hands. Even the shoes feel a little too large.

"They were about fifteen minutes ago," the woman says wryly.

Jonathan's skin is crawling, but the woman doesn't think this is half as creepy as he does, so he swallows and goes back to looking for the pocket. He finds that and pulls a small, flat, black folder from it.

The first thing he sees when he opens the folder is the badge, solid and gleaming. Opposite the badge is an identification card with _his name_ and a picture of a guy who looks a little like Dad, if Dad had a short beard and middling-brown hair instead of almost-black. Jonathan stares at the two objects for several seconds before managing to say, " _I'm_ a cop too?"

"Yeah, you're — wait —"

" _How_?" He shouldn't have interrupted her and he should apologize but he's too confused about this.

She just looks puzzled when he glances up at her. "What do you mean, _how_?"

"It's just — I mean —" There's a huge reason no one would ever let him be a cop, if they knew, but maybe she doesn't know. But even without that, "There's tests, right? To get in? And my grades …." He fights not to flush with embarrassment. He's at least _passing_ again now, but no one will ever mistake him for a good student. There's no way he'll be able to qualify for anything that requires a test.

Dread of _next year_ rises up, as it always does — senior year will only be harder, but he _has_ to graduate, because he can't put his parents through another year of tuition, but then what is he supposed to do if he _does_ graduate? — but he shoves it back down fiercely. He can't deal with that right now on top of everything else.

"Well, I wasn't there, but you must have done fine, because you've been doing this longer than I have," she says, casually, as if that wasn't just as impossible as everything else she's said so far. She's definitely somewhere around Mom's age. "But you said you're a cop _too_. Did you remember something about me?"

She must mean from the _now_ version of himself, the older version. "No, you just look like a cop," he says offhandedly, trying to memorize the image of his own name next to a badge like that. He's finally realizing that this is probably all just a really weird dream, and he wants to remember this one nice thing from it. He runs his fingers over the badge reverently, but then he registers one of the other words on both the card and the badge. "Boston?" Why in the world would he be in Boston? Except, wait, maybe that actually makes it make sense. "Maybe Granddad asked them to let me in?"

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that," she says, amused again. Great. At least she's enjoying this. "But we're looking for a note, remember? I keep mine with my ID." She pulls out her own black folder and shows him how she has a piece of paper tucked behind the card, though she doesn't show him what the paper says. "I figure, if I do get zapped somehow, it'll probably be because of work."

As she starts to put her ID away again, he half reaches out before catching himself. Before he can apologize, though, _she_ apologizes and holds it open again so he can study it. The badge looks just like the one he has. The picture on the card looks like her, and the card says her name is Tonya Smith. It says her rank is Detective.

The card that's supposed to be his says the same rank, which means this is all _total_ baloney, because that's got to be an even harder test. Whatever. He'll play along for now, but if they wanted him to believe any of this stuff, they should've paid better attention.

There's no note behind "his" card, so Detective Smith — he might as well call her that, because he doesn't have anything better to use — suggests his wallet next. He puts the badge away carefully first. He has finally noticed that there is a ring on his left hand, just where a wedding ring would be, and he has _no idea_ what to think about that, but it's a little loose and he doesn't want to lose it, so he slips it off and tucks it into the pocket with the badge as well. Then he has to check several pockets in the jacket and pants before he finds a wallet.

The wallet contains a driver's license — ha ha, very funny — with a picture of the same guy along with Jonathan's correct name and birthdate but an address in Massachusetts. There are several other cards and what feels like an alarming amount of cash, but there is in fact a small, folded piece of paper behind the license.

He holds the paper out to Detective Smith, but she declines. "That's for you, _from_ you," she says. "It's not my business. Besides, it looks like you wrote it in some kind of code, anyway."

It's not code. It's just shorthand — well, sort of. Mom taught them all shorthand for taking notes at school, but he hasn't been very good at keeping it looking right, so it's basically now his bad attempt at shorthand. Which his friends have complained pretty much means he _is_ taking notes in a private code.

But he can read it, and the handwriting isn't obviously _not_ his, and those facts shake his confidence that this is all some big joke someone's trying to play on him. It would be an awful lot of work to figure out the way he writes notes for himself just for this.

The outside of the note says _in case of suddenly being younger_ , which is super awkward, but he really can't think of how else he would put it, either. Inside, it says: _Trust Katie, Tonya, Mark, Andy. Don't go to work/home. Medical stuff should be okay but_ _you can say no_ _. This will wear off — just hang on._ The underlining is very heavy.

This … really isn't very helpful. Why does everyone think "don't worry, you won't exist in a few days!" is supposed to be _reassuring_? And even if it was, "medical stuff" definitely isn't. There's hardly anything there.

But ... he can't really think of anything else he _could_ have said to make himself believe all this. And the first thing it tells him is who to trust, and that's huge. And the first person on that list is his little sister, who is the person he trusts more than anyone else ever.

The second person is the woman in front of him now, at least probably. He doesn't know who the last two are supposed to be — the names are common enough, but they don't make him think of anyone particular. They could be other cops, but he thinks the names are actually for different situations. That's what he thinks he would do, especially since the note is in a wallet instead of a work-folder. Katie is first because she would always be first, and she would be for if this happened when he was around family. Tonya, who has the same rank he supposedly has and acts like she already knows future-him, would be for work.

So the other two names are probably for if he got zapped unexpectedly in other places. Maybe church, or maybe he'll keep playing around with that old camera Dad gave him and join a camera club or something. It doesn't really matter, because they aren't here now, and someone named Tonya is.

The note just _feels_ real, and that kind of scares him.

He carefully puts the note back where he found it. "I'm supposed to trust you," he reports finally.

She chuckles a little, shaking her head. "And you definitely don't. This is gonna go _great_."

He didn't mean to make her think _that_ — it's kind of true, but still — but she doesn't let him apologize.

"Honestly? Pretty sure I wouldn't trust you either, if we were swapped, no matter what some note in my pocket says. It's fine. We'll manage."

Someone calls her name and she straightens to look over the counter. Then she waves a confirmation to whoever that was and looks back down at Jonathan. "Lieutenant's here. Time to face the music."

She starts to reach down to help him up, but he stands before she can finish the gesture. He promptly has to clutch at the pants, which feel like they're about to fall straight off. "Your boss?" he asks, aiming for dignity, or at the very least, distraction.

Her mouth twitches, but she doesn't actually laugh at him, even though he must look ridiculous. "Our boss, yes. Come on."

She steers him around the counter and into the middle of … yeah, it does seem like some kind of store. It's pretty trashed now, though. Various people are milling around, a few of them in police uniforms and a few in more casual clothing. Most of them keep glancing over in his direction, and he feels himself trying to curl down a little into the ill-fitting suit. He keeps a tight hold on the belt with one hand, making sure the pants stay up, because he doesn't _think_ they really will fall off but it would be just his luck. He shifts a little so the detective blocks the view for most of them.

There's actually another kid off to the side, and for a moment the pale face and bright red curls make Jonathan think it's Jamie. But it's actually a girl and she looks a little too young — Jamie's twelve, so maybe eleven? A few feet beyond her is a slightly older boy with darker skin and bleached hair. They both look _terrified_ , though the boy is hiding it better. A couple of adults seem to be dealing with them. Well, trying to, anyway.

An older man comes in through the front door and makes his way over to the detective. He's another cop, some kind of higher-up, so probably the lieutenant. His hair is still dark in a few places around the grey, and he's got that sort of tannish skin color that Jonathan's friend Paul has, so maybe he's Italian, too. "Of _course_ it's Davis," he mutters as he gets a good look at Jonathan.

"He tried to get out of the way, sir," Detective Smith says, faintly annoyed even though she's talking to her boss. "It's not his fault."

"I'm not blaming him," the lieutenant says, and he's totally lying. "Just need to get in front of this."

Jonathan is trying to edge his way behind the detective a little without being obvious about it, so it takes him several seconds to notice that she's shifting her weight forward just a bit so he actually can. She knows he wants her to shield him, and she's going along with it, all without even having to look at him.

She's taken him seriously this whole time, and she made sure to talk him through everything as soon as she could. He's — uneasy, absolutely, and nervous, but thanks to her he's not completely lost and scared the way the two younger kids are.

He realizes, suddenly and with relief, that he actually does trust her.

"I've got copies of his paperwork back at my place," she's telling the lieutenant. "Need to go through it for the temp guardian stuff."

"Do that," the lieutenant confirms. He hands over a folder. "Contact info for the research people. And you're going to have to find another way out, because we've got media." He glances at Jonathan again, as if he thinks Jonathan is somehow personally responsible for that, too.

"Well, it definitely wasn't us," the detective says as Jonathan reminds himself firmly that he has _manners_ and so he can't glare at adults. At least not when they can see him. "We can go out the back. I might have to stick with this all the way through, especially if you want him to do the research thing."

"Fine," the lieutenant says. It's not fine. "I'll work it out." He accepts a set of keys from the detective and looks at Jonathan again. "Smith's in charge for now, Davis. Do what she says." It's not sarcastic, exactly, but Jonathan doesn't know how else to describe his tone. Maybe he thinks Jonathan can't follow directions or something.

At least keeping a tight hold on the belt gives Jonathan an excuse for making a fist. "Yes, sir," he says stiffly. The detective shifts just a little next to him — he must have screwed up, he must have sounded rude — but the lieutenant just nods and heads over to the other kids.


	2. Donut Shop

"This way," Detective Smith says quietly, directing Jonathan through a door next to the counter and on towards the back of the building. The way she steers him is strange. She doesn't just take his arm and push or pull; she simply keeps a hand near him and uses light, brief touches on his arm or back and occasional words to guide him in the right direction.

She pauses when they get to the back door. "Do you think you can get your jacket up over your head? It's just in case."

Jonathan nods, but he needs to free his hands up for it. With a muttered apology for the rudeness of undoing his belt in front of her —  _ again _ , which is even worse — he quickly adjusts it tighter. Then he shifts the jacket up over his head.

"Good," the detective says. An unmarked sedan with a crash bar on its front pulls up in the alley outside. A uniformed officer gets out and comes over to the door. He hands the keys over to the detective, but he then starts to stare at Jonathan until the detective shoos him away. "I'll open your door first. Let me get in the other side, and then you get in, as fast as you can. Keep the jacket up if you can until I say. Okay?"

He nods again, and she frowns a little but heads out. A few seconds later, they're driving away. It's tricky to get the seat belt in place while keeping the jacket up, but the detective makes a face at the rear-view mirror and doesn't tell him he can let the jacket down until after she's turned twice.

"You okay?" she asks.

He starts to nod yet again, but he doesn't mean to be rude to her. "Yes, ma'am." This car is weird. All the cars are weird. They're all … rounded off, and too tall in the middle, and narrow. Most have familiar brand badges, but none of the styles fit any of those badges. There are lots of vehicles that look like they can't decide if they're pickup trucks or minivans.

"It's just … you're quiet, and that's — I don't know whether that's good or bad, for  _ this _ you."

He doesn't know how to answer that, so he doesn't.

"Was it something the lieutenant said?"

Yeah, he messed up and let her know he doesn't like her boss. He means to apologize, but what actually comes out is, "Why do people lie when it's obvious? It just — why even bother?"

She frowns. "Do you think I've lied to you about something?"

"No," he says quickly. She's said a lot of unbelievable things, but she hasn't said anything  _ she _ doesn't believe. Or at least, if she has, she wasn't obvious about it. "Your lieutenant. He said he doesn't blame me, but he does. And he said it was fine that you had to — I'm not sure what. Babysit me, I guess. But it's not fine. So … why say it is?"

She makes a thoughtful sound and considers for a few seconds. "To answer your original question," she says finally, "sometimes it makes sense to tell an obvious lie. It can be sarcastic. It can be a matter of not being able to tell the truth legally, or under a contract, but wanting to convey the truth anyway. I'm sure there are other reasons. But I don't think it's usually obvious. I think you're just a lot better at being able to tell than people expect."

She's very good about keeping her eyes on the road as she drives, but she glances over long enough to see his disbelieving expression.

"I'm serious," she says. "You always have been, or at least, you have as long as I've known you. That's part of why we split up work when we can — interviews are your strength, just like I'm better at forensics."

Jonathan isn't used to being told he's good at something, especially so casually. He has no idea how to react.

"The thing is, the lieutenant knows that," she continues, sounding troubled. "I thought he was just a little frustrated at the paperwork and politics he'll have to deal with, and we were already stretched pretty thin before this. But he knows you pick up meanings most of us miss. And usually you seem to think he can do no wrong, and I'm pretty sure he knows  _ that _ , too. If he was using all that to send you some kind of message ...  _ if _ he was, then that's pretty shitty, and I apologize." Jonathan doesn't quite manage to hide his reaction, and she smiles again. "Right. Language. Sorry."

"It's okay," Jonathan says quickly. He knows people talk that way. He's just not used to adults talking to  _ him _ that way. But the public school kids mock the St. C's kids who take being respectful seriously — honestly, so do a bunch of the kids at St. C's, outside of class — and reacting to language like that usually sets them off. He doesn't want the detective to look at him the way that they do.

"No, I'll try to tone it down," she says. "I'm usually pretty responsible around kids and teens. I think it's just that you're not as different as I thought you might be if this ever happened. You are different, don't get me wrong, but I actually buy that this version of you has been there, behind all the … everything."

Jonathan has no idea what that means.

"Being so responsible," she says, "I should check whether you have any medical conditions I should know about. A lot can change in, what, 29 years. Any injuries or sickness?"

Jonathan swallows. "No."

"Allergies, asthma?"

"No —"

"Migraines, severe headaches?"

"No." The detective glances at him a little longer at that, but he's not sure why because it's true. Mom does, sometimes, but he's never had any headaches so bad he couldn't go to school. And, okay, he actually does still have a headache now, but it's not  _ severe _ .

"Any medications you should be taking?"

"No, not me." At her puzzled look, he clarifies, "Chris does, but I don't. My — my brother?"

How can she know him and not know about Chris? Absolutely everyone knows, and knows about, Chris.

Oh,  _ right _ , they're in Boston and nothing makes sense. "Chris has to take Ritalin. Mom practically has to sit on him to make sure he takes it when he's supposed to." And Chris wouldn't have thought to mention it, if all this was happening to him, so it's a good question, even if it doesn't actually apply now.

"But you don't," the detective says. She sounds skeptical, he thinks.

"I can be good if I try, so I don't need it," he explains.

Except.

Except  _ he hasn't been trying _ . His knee is just bouncing away. His fingers are fidgeting with the sleeves of the jacket. He's probably been shifting around like anything in his seat, especially since these clothes don't fit right. She's been really nice about it, but he hasn't thought  _ once _ about keeping still. He's probably been driving her  _ crazy _ this whole time.

"Change of plans," she says, all tight and serious.

Oh no. He's already gone and messed everything up just because he can't manage to sit still for five minutes. Should he apologize now, or would that just be even more distracting? She's trying to  _ drive _ —

"I'm not angry at you," she says, but she's angry at someone, or something. Jonathan is very careful to sit quietly, but she just looks more pinched as several blocks pass in silence. "This is Boston," she mutters eventually, "how is there not — ah.  _ Finally _ ."

She has to go around the block before she finds an open spot, but she parallel-parks as if it's simple and gets out, motioning for him to join her. She lightly steers him into a doughnut shop, letting him slip behind her as she joins the short line.

There are racks of doughnuts behind the servers, and over those is some kind of menu, but it's somehow also some kind of huge TV embedded in the wall. Or — more than one TV. He has to search to find the actual menu around the pictures of drinks and food, but every time he starts to try to read it, pictures replace the menu and the menu moves to where the pictures were. How is someone supposed to read any of it?

"Black?" the detective asks. Jonathan gives up on trying to read the menu at all, but he's not sure what she's asking. "You usually take it black, but I don't know if that's true for  _ this _ you," she adds.

"Coffee?" Mom lets him have a little coffee sometimes, if he's got a big day ahead. She likes it with cream and sugar, but he knows those cost money, so it seems silly to get used to them. "Black's okay, I guess, but I don't —"

"Not yet," the detective says quietly, and then she's at the front of the line anyway. She orders two large black coffees, a large iced regular, and an egg-and-cheese sandwich. The server takes the order by pressing flat buttons on something that's shaped vaguely like a register but doesn't really seem to work at all like one.

Jonathan stares at the total. How can food cost  _ that _ much?

Well, prices do change over time. Granddad always complains about how much candy bars cost now, and the detective says it's been another few decades. So maybe it's just that? But it still seems like  _ so much _ money.

The detective swipes a card through a slot in the edge of some kind of gadget on the counter. The server hands her a receipt, so the card must be how she paid. She heads to the other end of the counter.

Jonathan sticks close, but when they get there, she glances down at the way he's holding the belt again to make absolutely sure the pants stay up. He makes himself let go. He's being silly. It's just that they still feel so loose and  _ wrong _ .

"Go grab a table," she says. "I'll be over in a minute."

He's a little nervous about moving away from her, but he would probably look less ridiculous sitting down. At least it would be harder for people to stare at him. There's a sort of counter by one window with a few tall seats along it, but it would put their backs to the room. There are only a couple of tables other than that, and all their chairs are pretty exposed, so he picks the one that will at least  _ kind _ of let Detective Smith watch the door.

It really does only take her about a minute to join him. "You sure you don't remember anything?" she asks, but in a kind of teasing way, which he thinks means she approves of his choice. She sits and keeps the iced drink for herself, pushing everything else to his side. She adds a stack of about twenty napkins to the middle of the small table and then, for some reason, sets a pen next to the stack. "Please stop trying to be a statue. It's not — it's distracting."

Jonathan doesn't understand what she wants him to do, because he knows being squirmy is definitely more distracting. He also doesn't understand why she spent all that money on this food and is pushing it on him now. "I don't — I'm not really —"

"You're a teenage boy," she says. "I've got one of those at home, so I know that at any given moment, there's a decent chance you're hungry. If you honestly don't want it, you don't have to eat it. If you are hungry but you want something else, let me know what and we can get that. I'm just not convinced you would bother to  _ say anything _ if you were hungry."

Now that he can smell food, he actually is. "I'll pay you back," he says miserably. He doesn't know  _ how _ . Is he allowed to use the money in the wallet, if his name is on all the cards in it?

"Don't worry about it," she says easily. "You pay for my coffee probably about nine times out of ten. It's definitely my turn."

It doesn't feel right, because Jonathan's not really the one who paid those other times. But he doesn't know how to insist without seeming ungrateful, or rude. "Thank you," he says finally, careful not to mutter, even though he's embarrassed and kind of lost. He pushes the sleeves up as much as he can — he's going to mess them up anyway, he just knows it — and takes the sandwich out of its bag.

At home and at school, saying grace is a group thing, but he's never felt right being showy about it at places like the food court in the mall. That feels too much like a performance, which feels too much like mocking his own faith. This place is basically the same as that, so he keeps it soft and private now.

With the first bite of the sandwich, he realizes that, yeah, he's definitely hungry.

"So I have a problem," the detective says suddenly.

Jonathan glances up at her, unable to reply with a full mouth — but no, she did that on purpose. She wants to tell him something complicated and probably just doesn't want him to interrupt.

"We've worked together for years," she continues. "The older version of you, I mean. We make a good team."

Jonathan hastily looks down again, adjusting the wrapper around the rest of the sandwich. Being partners with someone like that sounds really nice.

"But you're the most private person I have  _ ever met _ ."

He's surprised for a second, but no, it makes sense. If he was going to convince a police department to let him in — which would obviously never really happen — he couldn't let them know anything real about himself, could he?

"Like that accent of yours," she says, which is not at all what he expected. She smiles a little at his look of confusion. "I've only ever heard you use that accent once before, and you had a concussion at the time. You were insulted when I guessed New York — yeah, that's pretty much the face you made then, too — but you never actually said where it  _ is _ from. Most of the time … well, you drift a little to the accent of whoever you're talking to, and you can generally pull off any accent you feel like trying, but otherwise, you just sound very Boston. Like you spent your entire childhood in Southie and never quite managed to lose the accent completely. But hearing you now, I'm guessing you never lived there at all, or at least not until you were an adult."

Jonathan swallows quickly so he can explain, "Mom grew up in Southie. And we still visit Granddad there. And I'm —"

"I'm not actually asking right now," she says hastily. He frowns, because he's not embarrassed of where he's from or anything, and she adds, "You can tell me in a few days if you want me to know. But that's what I'm trying to get at — there's a  _ lot _ I don't know about you, and I'm fine with that, but I don't always know when something just hasn't come up because you generally don't talk about anything personal or when it's something you really do want to keep private. I try to let you bring stuff up on your own, because I don't want you to feel like I'm prying."

She sighs, leaning back in her chair.

"And now this. I want us to be able to work together when this is over, and that probably won't happen if you feel like I've been digging up things you don't want me to know. But at the same time, I can't just treat  _ this _ you like an inconvenient placeholder and freeze you out, because that's not fair. So I'm going to have to ask you reasonable questions, and I don't want you to feel like you can't give me reasonable answers, but now I'm stuck knowing something I didn't before." She makes a face. "And I can't just leave it alone, because  _ I'm _ not okay with spending the next several days watching a kid think he's bad or wrong just because he can't sit still."

"It's not — it's not like that," Jonathan protests. Chris literally  _ can't _ sit still if he forgets to take his Ritalin. Jonathan can, just like all the other guys in his classes who mess around until the teacher tells them to settle down. He just … forgets sometimes, that's all.

"I can't begin to tell you how  _ not _ surprised I am that you have a sibling on Ritalin," she says. "You've always been very ... high-energy, let's call it. I don't know if that's really all there is to it, or if you've ever taken anything, or frankly, if you take anything for it now. Though that one's probably not very likely, considering what we do. I do know you go through about a gallon of coffee a day," she adds, nodding at the cups she bought for him. "Maybe it's related, maybe it's not. Honestly, it's none of my business."

She sighs again.

"And I know there's a whole complicated calculation to work out about the risks of over-medicating or medicalizing childhood and all that. But. Kids also shouldn't have to feel like they're misbehaving or failing for things they honestly can't help. And if you're worried about your grades … I just wonder what they'd look like if you weren't so busy worrying about whether you're fidgeting too much." She says the last part gently.

Then her tone turns brisk as she continues, "And now I'm going to  _ stop _ wondering about it, because it's much too tempting to start drawing lines to things I know about the current version of you and coming to all sorts of conclusions, most of which would probably be wrong and none of which are likely to make you want to stick around. I'm just going to ask that you try the coffee at some point, let me know if you decide you want more later, and don't worry about the whole fidgeting thing. I can handle it."

Jonathan honestly doesn't get why she'd  _ want _ to. She's being kind, though, so he can't really protest. But that's why he can't act out, either, even if he wanted to. So he'll have to behave without being obvious he's trying. He's not sure he even knows how to do that.

He'll also have to fix his accent. He hadn't even thought about it, since Boston is big enough for different accents not to be a big deal. But the detective is  _ noticing _ his because it's not what she's used to.

Boston doesn't have just one accent, of course, any more than New York does — even if the ones in New York are a  _ lot _ more different from each other. And his isn't any of them, good grief. He doesn't know the ones in Boston as well as he does those, though.

The detective's accent isn't actually quite Boston, but he's not sure where it is from. Somewhere nearby, he thinks. Maybe North Shore? But it's not quite right for what he needs. He can't just talk like Granddad — she would  _ definitely _ notice if he sounded mostly Irish. Maybe the way Mom talks when they visit? She always sounds  _ really _ Southie when they do, though, and Jonathan hasn't heard anyone sounding quite like that so far today. Maybe he can talk mostly like her and Granddad's neighbors, but smooth it out a little with how the people around them are talking. He tries to pay a little more attention to the voices in the room without ignoring the detective.

She's fighting a smile and looking down at the table. Where his fingers are busy tearing napkins into little shreds.

He finds himself thinking  _ well, she said she wanted this _ rather desperately as he scrambles to apologize and clean up the mess.

"It's fine," she says. " _ Jack _ . It's  _ fine _ . Honestly. That's actually exactly what they're for. You usually focus better when you have something to keep your hands busy. I just thought you'd probably draw on them or something," she adds, nudging the pen she'd set down.

It's her pen, he would never take it — he definitely knows better than to doodle when he's supposed to be paying attention — wait. "When you say  _ Jack _ , you mean me?"

"Yes?" She just looks puzzled.

"That's not my name," he says stubbornly. He doesn't  _ mean _ to be a brat, he really doesn't, but he's getting overwhelmed and the objection just slips out. People never get his name right, but at least they never call him that.

"Well, no. It's a nickname. You've gone by it since before we met, though. Everyone calls you  _ Jack _ . Well, everyone on the job at least," she clarifies slowly. "I guess people mostly call you  _ Jon _ outside of work. But you —"

Her eyes narrow, going distant as she considers something at length.

"You never actually  _ offer _ it, though," she concludes slowly. "When you actually give your own name, it's always  _ Jon Davis _ , isn't it?"

Ugh. Will he really just give up like that? Jonathan isn't too impressed by his future self. The only excuse he can think of is that  _ Detective Tonya Smith _ is a lot less of a mouthful than  _ Detective Jonathan Davis _ is, so maybe he wanted to make it easier to say their names together or something, if they're partners.

Her title-and-name combination still flows a lot better than his, though, with the alternating syllables. His would only work like that if he went by  _ Jonny _ , which is definitely not an option.

"I'm sorry," the detective says, very serious now. "I didn't really think about it. I should have asked. I'll try to get your name right. When I asked if you knew your name earlier, you gave the full version. Is that what you prefer?"

That's — he doesn't usually bother to say anything because it's silly to care so much about it. Having someone take it seriously just turns out to make everything all awkward. Jonathan nods and fumbles out a  _ thanks _ , embarrassed all over again, and scrambles for  _ anything _ else to talk about. "You, um, you can take your pen back. I have one, I think." There's a ton of stuff in the pockets of this suit, and he's pretty sure he ran across several pens when he was looking for the wallet.

The detective suddenly winces. "Actually, can you see if you can find a notebook? Should look something like this." She pulls a small notebook from a pocket in her jacket.

"Oh, yeah." He has to check a few different pockets, but he manages to produce two notebooks. One looks very much like hers, while the other has a slightly different shape and binding.

The detective flips open the first and pages through it. "Okay, yeah, these are case notes. Be careful with this one. It's discoverable, so don't put anything in it that you wouldn't want to end up in a court case." She closes it and pushes it back to him.

He slides it towards her again. "Could you take it? Keep it safe?"

"That's probably best," she says, approving. She puts it away with her own notebook before opening the different one. "Now, this one … yeah. You can mess around with this one, if you want. As long as nothing case-related ever ends up in it, it's not discoverable, and you know better. The older version of you, I mean."

Jonathan looks through a few pages. It's mostly just random doodles — apparently he'll forget he's not supposed to? — and quick sketches. The sketches aren't anywhere near as good as Jamie's, of course, but they're a little better than Jonathan would be able to do now. Pretty much exactly like the way he'd draw if he practiced for a long time.

The detective glances up and frowns at something behind Jonathan. He has to turn in his seat to find what she's looking at, which is another one of the strange screens. This one's high up in a corner of the wall, and the front of it looks like a TV broadcast, even though the screen's box is much too flat to fit a tube.

The image has an almost alarming sharpness. It seems to be a news program, though figuring that out takes him a few seconds, because there are two different pictures side-by-side, and words across the bottom, and more words along the side. Then the two pictures are replaced by one bigger single picture of a row of stores. The words along the bottom say 'WAM' IN JAMAICA PLAIN.

The picture behind the words changes again, and Jonathan is startled to recognize the detective's lieutenant. There doesn't seem to be any sound coming from the screen, but the lieutenant is obviously giving the reporter a longer version of  _ no comment _ . The picture behind the words changes yet again to a pair of people behind a news desk.

"We should probably get going," the detective says quietly. Jonathan nods and finishes cleaning up the table as she gathers their drinks, and within moments they're on their way out.

Jonathan waits for the privacy of the car to ask. "What does 'WAM' mean?"

Even though she's driving, the detective rolls her eyes. "Wizardly Age Manipulation," she answers, disgusted. "I can't  _ believe _ that stuck."


	3. Paperwork

_ Magic _ , Tonya thinks,  _ is a pain in the ass _ .

It probably isn't really magic. As Mark has pointed out, at length, if magic were real, there would have been other verifiable incidents throughout history. There should at the very least be other verifiable phenomena now, if magic has somehow suddenly  _ become _ real when it wasn't before.

Jack is taking the whole thing well, at least. Too well, really, which probably means he doesn't believe any of it. But he's cooperating, and that's all Tonya really needs him to do until this wears off again.

Not  _ Jack _ , dammit. She really should have known better, but she's known him by the nickname for their entire partnership, and he's never given any sign he minds it. Granted, he's practically allergic to expressing a personal preference about  _ anything _ , but he does sometimes give in and let her know when he doesn't like something.

Jonathan, the teenage version of her partner, sitting next to her now and trying to decide how he feels about coffee, is far more open than Jack has ever been. It makes her nervous. Jack has his reasons, and as she told the junior version here, she's not looking to get around them.

She doesn't actually know how much stock to put into Jonathan's reactions. The kid is clearly touchy about his name and surprised to be taken seriously about it, but plenty of people go through different name preferences as they get older. Regardless, the separate names do help her keep the younger version separate from the older in her head.

Calling Jonathan  _ open _ is grading on a curve, though. He's far more wary than a sheltered kid of his age ought to be. He's nowhere near as stealthy as he will someday be — Jack is eerily skilled at avoiding notice — but he already knows how to position himself to deflect attention, little tricks of posture and expression that combine to suggest  _ nothing to see here, maybe check over there _ . He's already  _ changed his accent _ , as if that's a thing most people casually do, just because she pointed out it was different.

That kind of evasiveness itches at her instincts, professional and maternal both, but she can't really follow up. If something is wrong, she's thirty years too late for intervention.

The adopted accent isn't quite right, which is strangely reassuring. Jack modulates his accent smoothly, from the oddly featureless generic-Northeast pronunciation he uses around Mark, to a hint of Southie with her, to a clearer version around other cops, and all the way to the hilariously thick Southie that he falls into when he's drunk. She's only heard that one a few times, of course, but it sounds like it's been built up over generations. If not for that one time he briefly got stuck in his natural accent early in their partnership, she probably would never have questioned that it had.

Jonathan, on the other hand, hasn't quite worked out just how strong it should be yet, and its thickness is a bit slippery as a result. A lot of his later facility is probably still an inherent talent, yes, but it's clearly also a skill that he's had to develop. Though she's not sure he's ever quite realized that, at either age.

Jonathan goes wide-eyed as they cross downtown Boston. The skyline itself apparently isn't different enough to rattle him, which makes sense if he was only an occasional visitor at that age, but the changes to the Central Artery startle him. He turns out to have heard tentative plans about the Big Dig — at some point back before 1985, which is pretty depressing to realize, since the project only wrapped up seven or eight years ago and still has problems.

She shares a few highlights of the whole thing, keeping it light. She's careful to ensure that the majority of her attention is on the road rather than on her passenger, of course — she's good at that and Jack  _ really isn't _ , which is why she usually takes the wheel — but she's aware that Jonathan is studying her. She's pretty sure he can tell she's leaving things out. He seems to accept that that's not the same thing as lying, though, and he goes along with it.

It's strange, though. She can absolutely buy that he's always been surprisingly good at reading people; back when he was supposed to be training her, he'd finally had to admit he had no idea how to teach that because he didn't know how it worked himself. It was all just instinctive for him. If he was already good at that when he was a junior in high school, but the idea of going into a naturally suitable profession like policing was some kind of impossible dream to him … she can't help wondering what sort of career plans he'd had, and what changed them. At that age, she'd been planning to head into law enforcement for years.

It'll have to remain idle curiosity, though, because that would definitely count as prying.

They cross into East Boston and Tonya parks in her building's garage. Jonathan follows her readily but hesitates at the doorway when he realizes they're entering her condo. He proceeds willingly enough when she gestures for him to go in, sticking close to her, which is something of a surprise. Jack is all about personal space.

Then again, Jack isn't typically stranded in an impossible situation straight out of science fiction, with only one sympathetic stranger as an anchor. Maybe he'd be more clingy then. Even if she can't picture it.

Once she heads into her bedroom, though, Jonathan holds back at the door again. She locks Jack's sidearm in the gun safe first. Then she digs through the closet to find both a clip-style suit hanger and a garment bag, as well as Jack's "stay" bag.

She steers Jonathan to the bathroom. "Suit on this" — hanger — "and in this" — garment bag, because she does not want to spend a month picking up the eight thousand things Jack carries around in his pockets — "and there should be something to fit you in this" — duffel. "I'll be in the kitchen getting your paperwork together. Join me when you're ready."

She considers telling him not to lock the door but decides against it. She can break it if she absolutely has to, but she doesn't think he's a danger to himself or anything like that, and he hasn't had a moment alone yet to process the whole dumped-thirty-years-in-the-future thing. He deserves some time alone if he wants it.

She digs out her folder of his paperwork and takes it to the kitchen table, but she texts Mark first, both because he should be the first to know and because that one's easy:  _ J *is fine* but got zapped. With me now. 17, 85. Will contact sister _ . She'd rather call for anything like this, but his school requires faculty to keep their phones silenced during school hours. When they all got together to discuss what they would do if this happened, they agreed it doesn't warrant calling through the main office.

There's nothing he can really do right now, so it wouldn't help to start him worrying any earlier than necessary.

Next Tonya flips the folder open to the first page, to get the cell phone number of Jack's sister. She doesn't know her as well, so she takes the extra time to explain the situation in proper sentences, still by text. She'll call later if necessary, but she's got some other stuff to sort through first, so she doesn't have all the details she'll need just yet.

Once that's done, she turns to the folder from the lieutenant to work out exactly what the research involves. The lieutenant had said this was just contact info, but there are multiple contacts and some kind of  _ protocol _ , so she starts making calls to work out what happens when. In the end she has two appointments to get Jonathan to, one for today but one she can't get any earlier than tomorrow.

As she's wrapping that up, her phone starts vibrating with responses to her texts. The sister — Katie — is surprised but promptly agrees that Jonathan can stay with her until this all wears off. They start hashing out timing details, since Tonya plans to take the lead on this research stuff. Katie has a few things to work around; she's willing to move or cancel them, but Tonya doesn't mind covering. Jack always provided free babysitting for Lije whenever she was in a pinch, so this isn't even a drop in the bucket of what she owes him.

Mark replies while she's still settling details with Katie. He keeps it simple, just asking to be told if there's anything he can do to help and thanking her for taking care of it.

Jack can move through her place just about silently. His younger version is quiet, but not  _ that _ quiet, so she hears him enter the kitchen. He waits for about a minute before asking, "Is that one of those  _ Star Trek _ things?"

"No, it's a phone," she says, her attention still on the last couple of messages.

She finally finishes that and looks up to see that Jonathan has drawn in on himself, so she hastily reviews what they said, but it takes her a bit to realize the problem.

"Really, it's a phone," she tells him. "That wasn't sarcasm. Here, look." She sets the phone on the table so he can see the screen, selects the phone app, and swipes to redial a recent number. She taps the speaker icon so he can hear the ring and then the automated answer:  _ Thank you for calling CVS/pharmacy, located at  _ — She disconnects at that point, since she only needed a quick example. "It just does a lot more, too."

It was a good move; that shut-down look has turned to curiosity. "So do you have video phones now, then?"

"Not exactly. Well, there is video calling, but that uses a different system. It's complicated." She tucks her phone back into her pocket and gets a better look at him. He's wearing a pair of ratty old sneakers she's pretty damn sure Jack claimed he'd finally thrown away, and — "Wait, did you really — I mean, did he — I mean." She starts over. "It's September. Was there really nothing lighter in your bag? It's about 70 out there." The sweatpants aren't much of a surprise, since their sizing is pretty forgiving, but the sweatshirt in addition is a bit much. "I can probably dig up a t-shirt."

"That's okay," Jonathan says quickly.

Right, she apparently forgot who she was talking to. With Jack, she would have made a joke, assured him that she wouldn't swoon at the sight of his knees or elbows, but that doesn't seem like the kind of thing she can say to someone who is currently almost thirty years her junior. And Jack would've joked right back, without ever actually considering shedding layers unless he was well on the way to heatstroke. "Well, let me know if you change your mind."

"Yes, ma'am. Um. There were some new clothes in there, too, and — and some of them were really small?"

"Oh, yeah, we don't know the limits on this whole thing yet. For all we knew, this whole zapping thing might have made you ten, or even five. And you  _ do _ like to be prepared for any eventuality." She's teasing him a little, because Jack does take preparation to something of an extreme. But Jonathan doesn't look like he quite knows how to take her tone, so she moves on. "Ready for some exciting paperwork?"

That's  _ exactly _ the look Jack would have given her. Jack would have followed it with a snarky comment rather than a resigned, "Yes, ma'am," though. Jonathan takes the seat to her right.

She hands him a pen. "I don't think you'll actually need to fill anything out, but just in case. So, here's the thing. This whole zapping business has only been going on for a few months. No one knows where it came from, how it actually works, any of that. We just know that there's at least one person, and possibly a small group of people, running around and claiming they're doing magic. They mostly seem to be  _ using _ it during quick smash-and-grabs, but we haven't even figured out what sort of thing they're after. The spread of missing items is either random or  _ really _ esoteric."

Jonathan is listening attentively, seemingly unaware that his fingers are idly spinning the pen in various patterns.

Tonya continues, "The cases we know of haven't all been in Boston, but most of them have been in this general area, so a lot of people are guessing that this is all some Harvard or MIT experiment gone rogue. It's hard to get more information, though, because whenever we get close, our people suddenly end up missing years of training and  _ memory _ , and then our resources get strained further keeping those people safe until the effect wears off. It's not just us — they're hitting civilians, too — but first responders have been the majority."

She taps the folder the lieutenant gave her.

"So, as you can imagine, law enforcement in general and our department in particular want to figure out as much as they can to try to counter the zapping. They've pulled some people from a few hospitals and universities together to study whatever they can. Of course, all there really is  _ to _ study is …"

"Me," Jonathan realizes. That is not the expression of a happy camper.

"And the others this has happened to, yes, along with the locations where this has happened. It doesn't sound like they've actually come up with much of anything specific to do in terms of studying the people, though, especially since this only lasts for a few days. They'd like to take some blood to run various tests and have you answer a questionnaire; we can take care of those today. Then there's an MRI — no, fMRI. The earliest they can get you in for that is tomorrow. But it sounds like that's pretty much all they've come up with so far."

Jonathan bites his lip and looks down at the table. He stops fiddling with the pen and holds on to it tightly with both hands. Tonya waits him out, and he finally says, "That … my note. It said I could say no? To — to medical stuff?"

Jack's note looked really short, so it's interesting that this would have taken up part of it. Jack knows just as well as Tonya does that the lieutenant wants this solved, and he'll usually do just about anything the lieutenant asks. But he's always been jittery around hospitals, and he flatly ruled out the option of staying in a study lab the entire time, being closely monitored in the hopes of catching something new.

"You can," Tonya confirms. "Especially because you're not an outlier. I think the youngest we've gotten out of this so far was about eleven or twelve, and the oldest was either late teens or early twenties. I know less about everyone's actual ages, but I'm pretty sure you aren't the oldest or youngest, and you weren't changed by the most years or the least."

Jonathan makes a tiny sound that isn't quite amusement. "In the middle," he mutters, sounding entirely unsurprised.

Tonya doesn't know what that's about and isn't going to ask. "Pretty much, which means the project probably doesn't  _ need _ you. But even if they did, you've got some other paperwork that we'll get to in a minute, and it puts a lot of weight on your choices —  _ this _ you, I mean. If you really don't want to do this, I should be able to make that stick."

He glances up at her and then looks back down at the pen, which his hands seem to be trying to wring the ink from. "Would you do it?"

"Yes — well, as I am now, yes. In your situation … probably. It doesn't sound like it's a big deal. To me, at least." She doesn't want to pressure him, but she doesn't know whether he's hesitating for a specific reason or just from fear of the unknown. "I get my blood drawn every year for my physical, and that's just a pinch. We can check, but I'm guessing an fMRI is basically like a regular MRI. Wait, did they even have MRIs in '85?"

She would have been thirteen at the time, with no interest in medical technology. Jonathan just looks blank.

"It's a kind of scan. Like an X-ray machine, but without radiation. You can't do it if you have metal in your body or if you're claustrophobic, but it doesn't hurt. It's just really loud. And you do have to keep still for ten or twenty minutes," she adds, considering her audience.

"And … it would help people? The testing?"

"Maybe. I can't promise it will. I generally think that getting more information never hurts, but that doesn't mean it'll definitely help."

He considers that for about half a minute and then sighs shakily. "Okay."

"We'll head over to the lab when we're done here, then," she tells him. "They said they'll squeeze us in. And Jonathan?" She waits until he looks up again. "If you want to stop at  _ any time _ , just say so. No matter what. Got it?"

He nods, relieved. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. So now, the other paperwork. Legally you're still, what, 46. Physically and mentally, though, you're a minor. That makes for problems with contracts, consent, all that kind of stuff. So when the zapping kept happening, a bunch of us all got together and drew up paperwork to spell out how we'd want things to work if this ever happened to us. These are copies of yours. As I was saying earlier, you —  _ older _ -you specified that  _ this _ -you still gets to say yes or no, and we're to let that stand if we can. This is mostly just about having someone to sign paperwork and give you a place to crash. I mean, stay," she amends, not sure when that slang is from.

He smiles a little at the correction, so it seems it was unnecessary.  Tonya is a little surprised they haven't run into more slang problems. Language has changed a lot since they were both kids. She has to communicate with people of all ages and backgrounds, so she tries not to let the internet change the way she talks too much, but she has a teenage son, so she knows it creeps in sometimes.

Jack, meanwhile, uses internet-speak just enough to play the dorky-dad-trying-to-sound-cool type, at least around Lije. Jack has an odd sense of humor.

She slides the second form from his folder towards Jonathan, in case he wants evidence of what she's telling him. As she expected, he glances at it briefly, not particularly interested, and keeps his attention on her.

"When it comes to research issues, you named me as your primary guardian, since that's all work related. For anything else, I'm your secondary, so I'd be your back-up if we couldn't reach your primary or if you decide you don't want her to be your primary now. You okay with that so far?"

He answers that with an  _ of course _ nod. Clearly she's done something right. She just wishes she could pinpoint what.

She now slides the first form to him. "For your non-research primary, you named your sister, Katie."

He's startled. "She's fourteen. So how …?"

"If she was fourteen then, she's actually around 43 now," Tonya points out. "Somewhere near my age, actually."

He blinks rapidly at that, reconsidering. Yeah, he hasn't really processed the thirty-year-jump thing.

"Is that all right, then? Would you rather I handle that, too?" She's willing, but it would be awkward. And he has other options lined up, but they'd be even more so.

"No, that's okay. Only … that testing, it's here? And we're in Boston? Is there time to get to — to Katie's place and then back here again?"

He might be trying to honor her request not to tell her where he's actually from. He might be testing her claim that she doesn't already know. Either way, the point is moot. "She actually lives just over in Newton now. I think we can make it."

He's clearly very curious about that, but he doesn't ask.

Tonya leaves a quick note for Lije on the fridge, letting him know she might be home late, since she doesn't know how long this will all take and Terry's got a late flight. Then she gathers up all the paperwork to take it along. Jonathan left the duffel and garment bag in the bathroom, not sure where she wanted them; after using the bathroom quickly herself, she puts the former back in her closet and takes the latter along as they head back to the car.


	4. Labwork

The lab they've been told to go to is in Charlestown. Tonya knows roughly where it is, but she checks the navigation on her phone, which Jonathan finds suitably futuristic and impressive. Their route gives them a good view of the new bridge, but his reaction to it is more polite appreciation than actual interest.

At the lab itself, they're promised an indefinite wait, so Tonya grabs a few pages from the stack of HIPAA notices. She settles Jonathan down with those, a pen, and instructions to use the blank backs of the pages however he wishes. When he doesn't have anything else to keep him busy, Jack tends to occupy himself by straightening up clutter. While the tired pile of old magazines and rack of pamphlets about disease prevention could use the attention, a few other people are waiting, and working around them would be awkward so it's probably better that Jonathan let things be.

Meanwhile, she reviews her notes of their open cases, working out exactly what needs to be handed off and what can wait. She ends up stepping just outside the door to place a few quick calls as well, to get someone else on the things that absolutely need to keep moving. When those are done she heads back in and makes a last few notes.

After they've waited for nearly an hour, the man at the check-in desk calls Tonya up, but only to hand her an entire sheaf of papers to be filled out.  _ This _ is the study questionnaire? She's glad she didn't have to try to print it out at home, or else they'd still be there.

Jonathan sags a little when she presents him with the pile of paperwork, but he accepts it without complaint. Her case plans are as settled as she's going to be able to get them here, so she looks over his sketches for lack of anything else to do.

He doesn't seem to have settled on anything in particular. There are just several partial images — shapes that might be the other two people who were de-aged this morning, an SUV, the outlines of a house. A few of the people who have passed in and out of the waiting room, many of them apparently regulars with some kind of standing appointment. Nothing really stands out. The only thing she really notices is the quality of the sketches of people, rougher than Jack produces now but somehow  _ nicer _ -seeming without the police-sketch overtones.

Jonathan is working his way through the questionnaire slowly, frowning slightly in concentration. His lettering is carefully clear for the moment, not yet worn down by years of handwritten police reports. His lips move slightly as he reads the next question.

She's never quite managed to find a way to ask Jack if he's ever been checked for a reading disorder. It would  _ absolutely _ be prying, and he would take it as an insult, even if she didn't mean either one. It's not that he can't read, obviously, but he's a slower reader than she is, and when he's stressed or tired, he tends to mouth the words a bit, probably unconsciously. For all she knows, it's a way to shift some of the work to the parts of the brain that handle speaking or listening, which he's quite good at.

She's long known that he likes learning new things, especially languages, but the quickest way to kill his interest in a subject is to offer him a book about it. She's pretty sure Jack's mother-in-law is a librarian, which figures. He does seem to attract more than his fair share of what pop music thinks is irony.

But there's really no way for her to bring the possibility up. For all she knows, there wouldn't be anything he could do about it that he isn't already doing anyway.

And honestly, she could be imagining it. Lije was a late reader, and that experience primed her to watch for reading problems. But Lije got past his perfectly ordinary stumbling block and caught up, and Jack manages, and there's nothing to gain by stirring things up. So she leaves it alone.

Jonathan has only just finished the basic demographic questions when he's called up by the same man, who seems to be the blood-draw tech as well. They follow the tech through a door and to a draw station, where the tech directs Jonathan to sit in the chair before starting to pull tubes from a drawer.

Jonathan sits but clearly doesn't know what to do with the questionnaire, so Tonya takes it and the pen from him and reads out the next question. He answers with clear relief.

The tech is lining up tubes on a little table that happens to be to Jonathan's right. Jonathan starts sliding up that sleeve, so Tonya breaks off the next question to point out, "You're right-handed, so you might want —"

The startled, uneasy look he gives her cuts her off, though he soon ducks his head to hide it. "This is okay," he says, too quick and too mild. "I missed part of the question, sorry. Can you ask it again?"

That sort of deflection-and-redirection is familiar, since it's how a good half of conversations with Jack go. Jack would have been better at masking that first reaction, though. She's glad Jonathan isn't quite that polished yet. Without it, she might just have thought he was being accommodating to a fault.

Because, honestly,  _ that's _ very much him too, regardless of age.

But since this is something else, she doesn't push. She just starts the question over. The … curious question. "'What is the location where you were first affected?' Why would you know that?" She skims ahead. "Oh, the next question is if you recognized it. They could have asked that first." She fills those out.

The tech takes the opportunity to insert his own question. "Confirm your name and date of birth?"

Jonathan gives Tonya a confused look, probably because he already entered that information on the questionnaire. "They have to double-check," she reassures him.

"Oh. Okay. Jonathan Davis, January 10th. Um, '68," he adds when the tech clearly expects him to keep going.

The tech hesitates and frowns down at the printed sticker, so Tonya then assures  _ him _ , "It's right."

"Huh. You fall in a fountain of youth or something?" It's a mild joke with no expectation of answer. It's also as good a guess as any; for all anyone knows, this whole zapping thing could have started as someone's attempt at that.

The tech ties the band around Jonathan's arm, and Jonathan hastily looks away. Tonya skims further through the questionnaire. The next several questions have to do with location familiarity, so she moves past them, looking for something to keep Jonathan distracted from the rather disturbing number of tubes the tech has waiting.

"Here we go, post-incident effects. 'Please list all symptoms from the incident. For each, rank the severity from one to ten.'" Tonya is steadily less impressed with this questionnaire. It honestly looks as if pieces of different surveys were pasted into one document without editing for coherence or format. Or even font. In fairness, it probably was assembled hastily, because the researchers have had to start from scratch and haven't figured out what to ask, but still. "I guess that means, did getting zapped make you feel dizzy or sick to your stomach or anything like that."

"Um, I was dizzy, yeah, and my head hurt, and it was hard to think, like my brain was full of fog. And I guess I must have fallen over? Only I don't remember that part. Just … landing."

"Any injuries from that? Did you hit your head at all?" He'd said no injuries earlier, but with him, it never hurts to double-check.

"No, ma'am, I'm okay."

"All right, then give me some numbers on those. And I guess we're going to assume that a  _ one _ means  _ barely there _ and a  _ ten _ means the worst you've ever had, because they don't say."

"So … is that right when it happened, or after, or now, or what?"

Oh, hello, unexpected admission. She knows better than to jump on it directly, though. "Might as well give me all of them."

"The dizziness was about … a six, I guess? That went away after a couple of minutes, though. The headache was mostly a five or six, except when I moved. Then it was more like a seven or eight. The fog was about a  _ nine _ , but it went away when you were talking to me."

_ Except when I moved _ , Jesus. This guy. "Nine to zero, okay. And what's the headache at now?"

"Maybe a three?" he estimates. Then he realizes he's actually admitted to still having a headache at all.

Tonya's impressed she got that much out of him, honestly. He's probably lowballing it — though on second thought, he did own up to a nine on something, so maybe not. She's just lucky to get any numbers from him, because usually he insists —

"I'm fine, though, really." Yeah, there it is.

Jack claimed the same thing through a concussion and what later turned out to be a broken nose, just a few months into their partnership, and she's heard it from him any number of times since then. Its validity ranges from "reasonable claim if you squint" to "blatant lie". At least this time she has something else to work from. "Anything else? Okay, next, 'What is the date?'"

"... now? Or …?"

"I honestly can't be certain, but let's figure they mean for you. You said first half of '85?"

Jonathan nods. "I'm seventeen, so it's after January 10th. I don't think it's  _ right _ after. And Katie's fourteen, so it can't be May 9th yet."

"Oh, this is that magic thing!" the tech says. "Sorry, don't mind me." He swaps tubes.

Jonathan hasn't narrowed the range by a huge amount, but he's done a good job of applying logic to the edges, and he looks like he's still working on that. Tonya prompts, "Anything more?"

"It feels … kind of in the middle of that, but I don't know how. Not right around Easter or anything particular like that, but I don't know …" He makes a grumbling sound. "If I could just … it feels like a school day, but I don't know where I am in any of my classes. Why can't I  _ remember _ ?"

"I don't know, sorry. I can tell you the guess I've heard, though, if you want?" At his nod, she continues, "The best guess I've heard is that this 'magic thing' somehow picks a rough age rather than your age on any one individual date. Maybe it's sort of taking an average over … I don't know, maybe a couple of days, maybe a few months. And maybe it's not always the same amount of time for everyone. I don't know. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but it's the most plausible explanation I've heard so far."

Jonathan doesn't look particularly satisfied and Tonya really can't blame him. This is all so maddeningly vague.

She skims through the next several questions, which cover the same ground she already asked Jonathan about. Those lead into a couple of pages of prompts to try to narrow down the time range, asking about songs and movies and the like. Then there's a huge table of medications and medical conditions. Tonya marks the ones she's already asked about; she can circle back to the rest later.

She turns the page, skims the first few questions there, and  _ nope _ . "Do they ask these questions with everyone? Is there at least some kind of age filter?" She pages through quickly but can't find any kind of directions.

"I just printed the file they sent," the tech says. "Jon, I need you to sit still, okay?" He misses the glance, more resigned than irritated, that Jonathan gives him at the shortened name.

Tonya digs out a backup pen from her jacket and slips it into Jonathan's free hand. He gives her a grateful look as his fingers promptly start testing its shape and balance.

She goes back to the questionnaire. "Do they expect kids are filling these out themselves? Do they expect specific people to be asking these questions? And how are they …?" She frowns down at the form, trying to figure out what these people were thinking. She's starting to suspect that a social scientist heard about this whole thing and decided to try to wedge some of their own research into the process. Or maybe they're just throwing in every questionnaire they've already gotten past their review committees?

After several seconds, Jonathan asks, "How are they what?"

"Well, I was going to ask how they're controlling for teenage boys, but you would rightly take offense. The thing is, I've met enough of them that I'm pretty sure the people behind this questionnaire are not getting accurate answers for a bunch of these questions. Regardless,  _ I'm _ not asking you this stuff. You can take a look later and we can mail it in or something. Just … keep in mind that you don't actually have to answer anything you don't want to, okay?"

He agrees, though he's clearly mystified. Which just goes to show how sheltered he actually is, because Lije would  _ absolutely _ have known what she was talking about, at least in a general sense, and he's a few years younger.

She goes back to the time-range questions, since those are potentially interesting without being invasive. Jonathan is pretty fuzzy on the most recently released song or movie he can remember, which is fair, because she's not sure she could answer that particularly well if asked it herself right now. But when she uses her phone to find a list of movies to suggest, he recognizes  _ The Breakfast Club _ as something one of his sisters has seen recently. That knocks at least a month from the start of his range.

It's a pity  _ Back to the Future _ wasn't released until the second half of that year. It might have been useful if he'd seen that.

Jonathan doesn't recognize anything else from the list before the tech finishes drawing blood. One cotton swab is applied with pressure briefly, then another with paper tape, and they're free to go.

Tonya drives them to the nearest drugstore and tells Jonathan he can wait in the car, since she just needs to make a quick stop. She shouldn't really let him stay alone, since it's an official vehicle and he's currently a minor, but he is still  _ legally _ a cop — probably — and it's not as if he's the sort to mess with any of the equipment. Anyway, the purchase only takes a couple of minutes.

Once she's back in the car, she hands over the bottle of water first. "You should probably hydrate from giving that much blood," she tells him. She's confident that the tech took less than half of the amount someone would give when donating blood, but it was enough that water will still probably help. Then she hands over the bottle of ibuprofen as well. "And you can use it to take some of this."

Jonathan is startled. "I — I don't —"

"It doesn't help anything for you to sit there with a headache," Tonya points out. It's not really surprising that Jack's reluctance to be an "imposition" goes back this far, and she's had plenty of practice navigating it.

Jonathan clearly wants to object but can't find a way to do so. He finally goes ahead and opens the bottle. He extracts exactly one pill, closes the bottle again, and passes it back to her. He keeps his eyes on the pill in his fingers as he mumbles, "I'll pay you back." He sounds utterly miserable.

What the hell is this?

Jack has always been pretty cheap. Mark has been working to get him to factor quality into the total cost of things, and Tonya has been trying to get him to recognize the value of their time and convenience. They've had moderate success, though Jack is still reluctant to spend any more than he has to.

At the same time, he's never been stingy. He's always been careful not to send her for coffee, knowing exactly how that would look, which means he usually ends up picking up and paying for both of them, and he's never once asked her to pay him back. And he's never fought her when it's made more sense for her to buy things for them both.

So why is his younger self so damn twitchy about having money spent on him?

She sighs. "Look. The things I've paid for today? They're all minor and they're all perfectly normal. The food earlier was the same thing you usually pick up when you don't get a chance to eat at home. This is just a bottle of Advil and some water. We've got some time to kill before your sister can meet us, so brace yourself, because I'll also be buying lunch. And I really don't think I can face McDonald's today, so we'll pick something up at what you like to call my fancy lettuce place. And  _ it will be fine _ ," she adds, because he winced a little at the prospect. "You're not going to drive me into debt or anything —"

The trouble with hyperbole is that you risk hitting a target entirely accidentally. Jonathan actually flinches. She has  _ no idea _ why.

So she continues, "— just over a couple of meals. If it still really bothers you in a few days, you can buy our next working dinner. The pills are already paid for, so take that one, and if you still have a headache in an hour, take another. And if you still have a headache an hour after that,  _ say something _ , okay? Because that might mean there's some new side effect to this whole zapping business, which means we really shouldn't ignore it — but I can't do anything if you don't tell me."

That possibility apparently hadn't occurred to him. He sinks a little lower in his seat. "Yes, ma'am." He goes ahead and takes the pill. He's quiet as she starts driving again.


	5. Fancy Lettuce Place

The detective thinks Jonathan is overreacting. He knows she's right, but there's just so  _ much _ to keep track of. He doesn't want to mess things up for his future self, but he keeps getting everything wrong. And he doesn't want to be any trouble, but he knows he's in the way just by being around at all. The detective has had to make all kinds of arrangements for her real work just so she can keep an eye on him, and then she keeps spending money on him on top of that. He doesn't want to whine about minor complaints, but apparently he got  _ that _ wrong, too.

She's getting frustrated with him, but not at the right things. He doesn't know whether that means he just doesn't understand enough yet ... or maybe his future self is kind of useless, so she's used to him being confused and unhelpful. He doesn't want to believe that, but she's handling everything so easily and he can't imagine what he could offer.

She drives west and a little south for a while, crossing into what she says is Brookline at one point. Eventually she parks at a meter on a busy street. "It's a bit of a walk from here," she says. "Parking's bad this time of day. We'll just pick something up and then head somewhere less crowded to eat, okay?"

"Can I just wait here?" Jonathan wouldn't mind the walk, but he doesn't really want to deal with all the people. "I mean, you know what I would want already, right?" he adds, because she already said she was going to buy him lunch and he doesn't want her to think he's trying to defy her.

She considers for a few seconds. "Not in the car, sorry," she decides finally. "Since I don't know how long this will actually take. But yeah, you can wait in a quiet corner or something while I order if you want." She grabs one of the folders as they get out. She locks the car and feeds the meter. As they start walking up the street, she smiles and adds quietly, "Besides, professional tip: Never pass up the chance to use a bathroom, because you don't know when your next chance will be."

She leads the way up the block and into one of the storefronts. There's a salad bar and what looks like a kind of glass-fronted deli counter, and there's no way this place isn't  _ super _ expensive. There's a menu board behind the counter, normal letters on a normal-if-artsy surface, but Jonathan decides maybe he just doesn't want to know.

The detective first heads past the register — well, the place where people seem to be paying, though there's no actual register in sight — and to a corner where there are a couple of bathrooms. She gestures for him to go first. He doesn't really need a bathroom yet, but she's been making him drink stuff and he doesn't want to have to ask later, so he follows her advice and goes quickly. When he emerges, she hands over the folder and a pen and tells him to make himself comfortable somewhere, before heading into the bathroom herself.

The place is crowded and there's not really anywhere to sit, which is just as well because he's tired of sitting. He finds a corner that's mostly out of the way near the sort-of-counter where people throw away trash and leave trays. He'll have to work on the questionnaire mid-air while standing, but the detective was doing that back at that lab, so he probably can't mess it up too much.

He knows he should probably start at the first unanswered question and keep moving through in order, but he's curious about the section that bothered the detective, so he pages ahead. Boring question, boring question, boring question. This questionnaire looks so tedious.

People always say women take forever in the bathroom, but the detective is quick enough. Maybe she has to share a bathroom with brothers and sisters too. She looks around and doesn't see him, because no one  _ ever _ actually sees him — but then she does spot him when she glances around again, which he's not used to. Reassured that he hasn't wandered off, she heads over to order food, and he goes back to the super dull questionnaire.

Boring question again, another one, and another — wait,  _ what _ ?

Are they even allowed to ask people if they're — he glances up to make sure no one's paying attention to him before he even lets the words form in his brain — if they're "sexually active"? To ask  _ kids _ ? That must be why the detective asked about an age filter. One of those other kids this morning looked about  _ eleven _ . There's  _ no way _ it's okay to ask her this kind of stuff.

Honestly, Jonathan doesn't think it's okay to ask him this kind of stuff either, even if — just, anyway. And yeah, there are guys in his class who would hoot and jeer and say  _ of course _ , even if it wasn't true, so he can see what the detective meant about teenage boys, too.

They'd be even worse with the next several questions, which ask things like "how many" and "how often" and just make Jonathan feel kind of sick. What in the world does any of this have to do with being zapped? Are they trying to figure out how much he really remembers, when he can't even remember what date it should be? Is it just to check if he's really who he thinks he is, and maybe they'll ask his older self later whether Jonathan's answers are right?

And then there's a question that turns his blood to ice.

_ Which of the following best describes your sexual orientation? Choose only one. Straight, gay/lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, asexual, other/not listed _ .

He makes himself breathe carefully, desperate not to cause a scene, but how is that okay to just ask? Who would ever answer anything but the first one, even if they had to lie? He doesn't even know what some of them mean, but they can't be okay.

An even worse thought strikes him then, because the detective told him he didn't have to answer anything he didn't want to. It wouldn't have occurred to him that he had that option if she hadn't said anything, and he wouldn't have thought he could lie, either. But … which question made her decide to tell him that? If it was this one, does that mean she knows?

She can't. She  _ can't _ , because she's a cop, and they would never  _ ever _ let him be one too if they knew.

Unless she does know but she's helping him keep it secret, like Katie. Maybe that's why they were the first two names listed on his note.

But that can't be right, because he was wearing a wedding ring. So he must figure out some way to fix this, somehow. He and Katie must find an answer in a library somewhere, in the nearly thirty years between his-now and this-now. Or he'll finally figure out who to pray to, or how to do it right, so that Someone will  _ help him _ make it all go away.

That means he can't answer these questions anyway. He definitely doesn't want to screw up his older self's entire life just because  _ he's _ all screwed up now.

He flips back to the boring questions again and goes through the ridiculously long list of possible medical conditions. The detective answered a couple of those for him already, based on the questions she'd asked, but there are a ton more and he's supposed to answer if there's a family history of any of them, too.

He manages a few minutes of that, long enough for his hands to stop shaking, before he's mentally worn out from trying to remember if any of his relatives have ever mentioned things like  _ angina _ or  _ hypertension _ . He keeps the folder open and his head down so it looks like he's still busy but switches to watching the people.

They look … comfortable, for the most part. Not rich, exactly, but they probably don't have to worry about making a pair of shoes last or even just about how much eating here is costing them. A few people are in suits, but not many at all. There are a lot of t-shirts and polos. One woman has a long skirt and sleeves, but the rest of the women who aren't in suits have shorter skirts or shorts or even tights, like they just came from an aerobics class and forgot to change the bottom half of their clothes back to something real. A couple of guys have long-sleeved, button-down shirts, but they're wearing them open over t-shirts.

Jonathan chose the sweatshirt mostly just because he wanted sleeves. There were a couple of casual-looking button-down shirts and t-shirts in the bag, but the image of a button-down shirt with sweatpants had seemed ridiculous. He hadn't known people wore them like this. It's too late now, but he'll have to remember that for later.

It seems to be a school day, so it makes sense that there aren't many kids around. One table does have three kids who are probably too young for school yet, along with a frazzled-looking woman who is trying to eat and handle all the kids and do something else besides, on a gadget that looks like what the detective said was a phone. A little girl is next to her, paying far more attention to her crayons and robot action figure than her food. Two boys are across from them, one absorbed in a larger flat device and the other making a mess with his food.

Jonathan watches them for a while because he likes little kids. They make sense, mostly, unlike this strange, flat, expensive future.

The little girl knocks one of her crayons to the floor. She starts to get up to get it, but the woman reaches out automatically to take hold of her wrist and keep her in her seat, without ever actually looking at her. The girl pouts and whines a bit, then tries to talk to the boy across from her. He doesn't notice. She tries the other boy next, and he says something that obviously includes the word  _ stupid _ before going back to mashing his food up.

The girl pouts harder. She keeps trying to get someone's attention, but they're  _ all ignoring her _ and she's probably about to start crying any second. Jonathan doesn't even mean to move, but the next thing he knows, he's picking up the crayon and setting it in front of the girl, kneeling down so he's not looming over her. "It's not really stupid, is it?" he suggests quietly. He doesn't even know what they're talking about, but he doesn't actually have to, because she will.

She lights up. "No! 'Cause see, he can fly, and shoot pulsers!" She makes fwooshy noises as she waves the robot toy at him. Jonathan doesn't know if she's using nonsense words or just ones he doesn't know, but he helps her tell him a few more things about her robot. Then he asks her about her drawing, which is honestly just a few vague lines, but which she tells him is a princess with laser eyes who rides something called a "unikitty".

They're deep into her little-kid-logic story, which is surprisingly violent for a girl's princess story, when the woman interrupts them. "Bayla, who's your friend?" she asks, her tone not quite suspicious but definitely wary.

Jonathan stands and borrows one of Chris's smiles, the reassuring one. She looks  _ super _ stressed and he doesn't want to add to that, and Chris can set anyone at ease. He misses his school uniform, which makes him look a lot more responsible. "Sorry, ma'am. She dropped her crayon so I was just picking it up for her." The advantage to people never noticing him is that they tend to assume he wasn't there to be noticed.

"And you're here with someone?" she suggests.

Jonathan would  _ never _ hurt a kid, but he knows she can't know that, and he's glad she's being careful. "Just waiting for my —" How is he supposed to refer to the detective? "— guardian." He glances over and is relieved to see that the detective is next in line to pay. "She's almost done, so I'd better go." He waves goodbye to Bayla, who fwooshes her robot at him in reply, and heads back to his mostly-out-of-the-way corner.

A couple of minutes later, the detective collects him and they head back outside.


	6. Avocado in the Park

Detective Smith drives south and then west again. After a mile or so on a four-lane divided road, she turns left onto a smaller road. She navigates around a sort of traffic island and parks. They're near a pond of some kind that was hidden from the larger road by a row of trees, and she guides Jonathan over to one of the benches that overlooks the pond.

She settles in and starts sorting through the bag of food, sitting a little turned towards him, with one leg up on the bench like she's halfway to sitting cross-legged. She hands him a sandwich wrapped in paper that's a little like waxed paper, but lighter-weight and brown, along with a glass bottle of some kind of juice. Then she pulls out a plastic bowl filled with salad for herself. It's probably a salad, at least, but it looks like there are lots of weird things in there. "Fancy lettuce?" he guesses.

She grins. "Yeah. Romaine, kale, spinach — not that those last couple are actually lettuces, but they fill the same space. More nutritious than iceberg, anyway." Jonathan hadn't known there really was any other kind of lettuce, at least not that real people ate. And raw spinach? "Tomatoes, feta, edamame, which is basically just a soybean —" she points her plastic fork at something that looks like a lima bean for that "— dried cranberries, apple, and chicken." There's some kind of dressing on it, too, but Jonathan is too stuck wondering why there's fruit in a salad to ask about that.

She seems happy with it, though, so he dismisses the question and unwraps his sandwich. He spreads the wrapper out on his lap to act as a napkin and murmurs grace. Then he takes a bite of the sandwich and freezes.

He probably should have asked what was in his food first.

"Ah. Right," the detective says. "Fusion's an acquired taste." She laughs tiredly. "And you haven't acquired it yet. Sorry about that, Ja— Jonathan. I wasn't really thinking. We can get you something else."

Jonathan makes himself chew and swallow. "No, it's okay. I was just surprised." Who puts  _ avocado _ on a  _ sandwich _ ? It's honestly kind of gross, but he doesn't think it will actually make him sick, and he's not about to waste food. It's his fault anyway, for not wanting to bother with helping her choose and order food. And he definitely doesn't want her to have to spend even more on him.

She's watching to be sure he's okay, so he's careful not to react to the taste or texture. He can just eat quickly and get it over with.

As they eat, he realizes that the pond doesn't matter to the detective. She's pretty much entirely ignoring it. Which maybe means this place is for  _ him _ .

When he starts getting too stressed about things, if the weather's at all decent, Dad takes him out on long walks to help him unwind. They'll often go down to the park, where there's a small pond and stream. Dad doesn't mind if he doesn't want to talk, and watching the water is pretty relaxing. He can believe that would stick with him, but he's not sure why the detective would know about it.

She keeps  _ seeing _ him, and he's not sure how much more he can stand.

A couple of years ago, he would've been thrilled. Someone paying attention to  _ him _ ? Boring little Jonny Davis, with his average grades and looks and talent at sports or art? He'd known exactly why no one ever really noticed him, but he'd wished that even just one person would.

But now — he suppresses a shudder. He doesn't want attention anymore. He just wants to be invisible. And sometimes, if he concentrates enough on that, he seems to slip out of most people's notice.

Not hers, though. Part of that has to be because he's new and strange and her responsibility right now, but part seems to be that she knows a lot about him and he has no idea how much. She said there's a lot she doesn't know, and he can only hope that's true.

He finally finishes the sandwich and washes it down with some of the juice. It's odd, too, but it basically seems like orange juice without the sharpness. That's close enough to something normal that he can deal with it.

The detective is only about halfway through her salad, not being in the same rush to finish. She's still sitting in that half-turned way. Jonathan tries pulling one knee up, resting his heel on the edge of the bench, and she doesn't seem annoyed about his posture so he leaves it there, wrapping his arms loosely around his leg to hug it a little closer. "I can't have a job," he admits.

"Can't  _ have _ ," she repeats, picking up on the wording.

He nods, keeping his eyes on the water but aware of her attention on him. When people find pieces, they want stories to explain them. His uneasiness about money has been surprising to her, which means she'll wonder about it. But people also like simple stories, one reason for things, and he can at least give her enough that she won't wonder anymore. "Until I can get my grades back up," he explains, because he already mentioned that they're terrible, so he doesn't have to reveal too much that she doesn't already know and that much honesty helps tie things together.

"Isn't being in school enough of a job?" she asks.

"No, there's tuition, and uniforms, and supplies, and just … things are expensive. Mary Ellen — you know my family, right? Mom, Dad, Mary Ellen, Chris, me, Katie, Jamie?" But it doesn't look like she's heard that list before, even though they're partners.

At least he remembered to say  _ me _ instead of  _ Jonny _ the way everyone else does. That messes up the way it flows a little, but she's been really nice about remembering to use his real name and he doesn't want to confuse her about that.

"Anyway, Mary Ellen got tons of scholarships for college, but there are still fees and books and stuff, so she still has to have a job. And she's had one since she was old enough, and she babysat before that. Even Chris is allowed, since it's not like his grades really get any worse now and he just needs to keep them high enough to graduate. Katie's not old enough yet, but she babysits. I couldn't even go out mowing with Jamie because I had to take both summer sessions last year. I might be allowed to get something this next summer, if I can pass all my classes this year, but … not yet."

"There's five of you," the detective notes, "and what, twelve years of private school each?"

"And kindergarten, so thirteen."

"So that's 65 tuition payments, just to start," the detective says. "Probably some discounts for volume, but yeah, that'd sting."

Jonathan's never really looked at it that way. The number is terrifying. And it's worse than that, because, "Actually, Chris had to repeat a year, so 66." And that's not counting the summer sessions Chris had to take, or his own two.

"Ouch," she agrees. "But isn't that —"

But she cuts herself off and looks down at her salad, working something out.

After about a minute, she speaks again. "So I  _ want _ to say that private school is a choice your parents made and you shouldn't have to bear the brunt of it, or that kids shouldn't have to worry about their family's financial state just in general. But I know it's not that simple. Sometimes kids have to work. Financial insecurity is real, and kids know about it — even if, as a parent, I wish they didn't have to. I can't say it doesn't happen or doesn't matter just because I don't like it. For you, what matters is that you're the only one who can't chip in?"

Jonathan nods, relieved that she gets it — and more relieved that he's given her enough, so he doesn't have to explain about the other bills. The ones he, personally, caused. The ones that kept his parents up late for too many nights.

He offered to switch to public school, but they immediately refused, and he was selfishly glad because he never actually  _ wanted _ to. It's not at all fair to say the tuition bills are their fault.

"Okay," the detective says. "That makes sense. So, for my side — this is explanation, not excuse. We're not wealthy, and you and I are never going to get rich off what we do, but we make decent money." She emphasizes the  _ you and I _ part of that a little, and at his curious look she pauses to explain, "My first training partner — as detective, I mean — got busted for taking bribes, when I had only been working with him for a couple of weeks.  _ We're _ both clean, though."

Jonathan had never imagined that he wouldn't be, or that he would ever work with anyone who wasn't. So he's sort of relieved, but more sort of sad for her, that she had to deal with that.

"Our salaries are still enough that my husband and I can own our condo and raise a kid without worrying too much about anything other than saving for college. And you've got a nice place and don't have money problems either, as far as I know. As I was saying earlier, these are all perfectly normal expenses for us. But I didn't really stop to think about what it would be like for you, when you're not in the same position. Sorry for stressing you out."

"It's okay." He knew all along that she wasn't trying to be mean or anything. And he hates the thought of costing anyone else money, but she's been clear that she doesn't mind. He's just the one with the hang-up about it. "I'm sorry I was difficult."

She almost argues, but he can see her deciding not to bother. She probably wants to be nice and tell him he wasn't that bad but knows it'll be too obviously untrue. "It was easier when I warned you ahead of time, wasn't it?" she asks instead.

He nods because yeah, it was, actually, even though that doesn't make much sense.

"That's me," she says, a bit rueful. "I think I just wanted to handle things before you had to worry about them. I tend to barge in and take over. You just usually don't mind, and it's probably worse since you're a minor right now, so I feel more responsible than usual."

"No, you've been great!" Jonathan protests. He blushes a little because that sounded pretty childish, even if it's true, so he tries to find something more to say. "Why would I mind? Older-me, I mean."

She smiles again. "Because technically, you outrank me, by seniority. We just both prefer to ignore that most of the time. But you were actually my second training partner."

_ He _ trained  _ her _ ? That doesn't make  _ any _ sense.

She laughs a little at his expression. "I'm not saying you volunteered. But I'm younger than you, so I joined later than you and made detective a few years after you did. I just needed someone to talk me through the day-to-day of the job, and once we hashed that out, we did fine.  _ You _ did fine."

Jonathan is pretty sure that training ought to be more than that. She shouldn't have had to make do. And honestly, her stressing that he did fine at so little doesn't really give him a lot of confidence in his older self's competence. "But … then you stayed?" Granddad always talks about training partnerships as temporary things.

"We work well together. So, yeah, we decided to stay paired up." She says that like there was ever any chance  _ he _ would have chosen not to work with her, which Jonathan just can't imagine. His older self can't be  _ that _ much of an idiot, can he? "And then … just life stuff made going for promotion less appealing, so we've kept going."

"I'm glad," he says quietly, not sure if he really wants her to hear. Besides, if she thinks he means he's glad she didn't get promoted —

"So am I," she says, with a warm smile. Before things can get awkward, she continues, "So we've got about another hour to kill before we can head over to your sister's. What do teenage boys in 1985 talk about?"

Jonathan honestly isn't sure how to answer that. "... Stuff?"

Luckily she isn't offended. "Are video games a thing yet?"

"I guess?" He doesn't have the time or money to hang out at the arcade. "My friend Paul has an Atari. It's neat, I guess." Paul's dad is a lawyer, so he usually has nice things. Paul's the idea guy anyway, the one who figures out things for them to do and talk about. Steve's the quiet one, and Jonathan's … whatever that leaves. The restless one who screws things up and keeps secrets, apparently.

"What about sports?" she tries. "You like baseball, right?"

"Yeah, it's okay." That's an ordinary thing for guys to like. It's not some hidden thing she shouldn't know.

"You have a team you like?"

She's just trying to find something simple to talk about, not interrogating him. It'll go better if he actually tries to help. "Dad likes the Mets. They're all right."

"But you're not from New York?" she checks. It sounds automatic, like she's too used to questioning people and didn't really think before asking.

He smiles a little and shakes his head, because she's already said she  _ doesn't _ really want to know where he's from, so he knows she won't push this. He's given her enough clues that she really ought to be able to guess anyway, if she does want to. Well … okay, maybe only enough for her to guess where Dad's from, because, "Mom still likes the Red Sox."

" _ Ouch _ ." At his confused look — they're her local team, why is liking them bad? — she adds, "Sorry. Just thinking '86 must have been a rough year in your house."

"Next … year?"

"Oh, right. Sorry, forgot you're not there yet. The '86 World Series was Mets versus Sox."

"Oh." Jonathan winces. "Mom must've been crushed. And especially Granddad."

The detective laughs. "You don't even have to ask?"

"Well, I mean, it's the Red Sox, they always —" But they're probably her team, too. "Sorry."

She's still chuckling. "It's fine, they  _ were _ like that for a long time. And you're right, they folded that year, too, pretty spectacularly. But they did eventually win a Series, in 2004." Something else amusing strikes her then: "Which would've been their first season after  _ Goodridge _ ."

Jonathan obviously doesn't get it, since 2004 is almost as unthinkably far away as 2014 is. Or the Red Sox winning a Series, for that matter. He would almost think she's joking about that, if she hadn't been so straightforward with him all along. "What's  _ Goodridge _ ?"

"Oh. Right. A big court decision. You'll laugh at me later for connecting them." So she just forgot for a minute he's not actually a cop like her right now. "Any other sports? Football?"

Jonathan makes a face. He can watch it, but it's mostly just a bunch of guys running into each other to see who falls down, in short bursts separated by lots of standing around. At least baseball is honest about being kind of boring to watch. He'd rather  _ play _ baseball, honestly, than watch just about any sport, but he's not good enough for a team. And he only plays enough soccer and tennis to give Katie someone to practice with. But he shouldn't be rude. "Do you like it?"

"Terry — my husband played, back in college, and he still watches any game he's in town for. And the Patriots are a big deal around here. So I follow it, at least."

That's not at all the same as liking it. Maybe she thinks the same thing Jonathan does about it.

She squints up at the clouds for a few seconds, probably trying to decide if they're going to get rained on, but the clouds have been building gradually and don't really look like rain, at least yet. Then she gestures across the little pond, to the north. "You live up that way, by the way. About a mile from here."

Jonathan glances over his shoulder, disbelieving. He can't see any houses directly from here because of trees in the way, but the ones nearby looked  _ super _ expensive. "Like  _ this _ ?"

"No, over the city line. It's more of a student neighborhood, lots of apartments."

Jonathan relaxes again because that makes more sense. A mile's plenty far enough for the neighborhood to change a lot, when he thinks about it, and it's close enough that this place would be just a nice walk away.

"You haven't said anything about wanting to go there," she says carefully.

Jonathan just shakes his head. His note says not to, and it makes sense. He wouldn't recognize it at all, and he apparently lives with — with someone, and he probably even has kids. He tries to picture if a guy his age came home and claimed to be Dad, and — no. That would be  _ way _ too weird.

"Okay," she says, not pushing it. A little relieved, if anything. She was probably worried she would have to talk him out of it.


	7. Camera

They're quiet for a couple of minutes. It's not a bad silence, but Jonathan isn't really good with silences with most people. The ones with Dad don't have any pressure in them, but most people expect something, and he doesn't really have anything to give them. Usually he just tries to get them talking about something, but he doesn't know how to do that with Detective Smith, since he doesn't know nearly enough about her.

He figures her family is  _ probably _ a safe topic, and he's about to ask something about them when the detective breaks the silence first. "You mentioned both of your sisters babysat before they were old enough for other jobs, but not you or your brothers?"

"No," he says, confused. "Boys don't babysit."

"Well, that's just silly," she says. Jonathan pulls himself in a little tighter as she sighs and says, "There's a lot I don't miss about the '80s, and things like are a big part of them.  _ Girls can't do science _ and  _ girls can't be cops _ — yeah, I proved them wrong, but having teachers say that kind of thing? It sucked."

Oh. "And  _ girls can't really play sports _ , right? Katie gets that a lot." She proves them wrong by being amazing, and he and Chris make sure no one gives her too hard a time, but he knows it upsets her, having to hear that from everyone.

"Yeah. Don't get me wrong, people still say sh— _ stuff _ like that, but not as much, at least. And the flipside's not really any better — the idea that boys can't babysit or like pretty things or have feelings, because that would make them like  _ girls _ . The  _ horror _ ."

Jamie gets called girly all the time, just because he's good at art. And, well, kind of a wimp, too. Everyone knows it's an insult, but Jonathan has never really thought about  _ why _ it seems like one. His sisters are girls, and they're great.

But it's definitely an insult. It just — it just  _ is _ .

"Sorry," she says. "I'm trying to raise a son, and navigating this stuff gets ... annoying, sometimes. My  _ point _ was going to be that it's a shame you missed out on babysitting just because  _ boys don't _ . You're actually great at it."

Jonathan is just confused again. Why would she think that? Sure, he's helped Katie a couple of times, because sometimes she has to sit the Herlihys, and no one sits the Herlihy kids alone. They're a  _ lot _ of work. But he's pretty sure the detective wouldn't know about that. Did she see him talking to the girl at the fancy-lettuce place and think that meant something?

"You were always happy to sit for Lije — Elijah, my son — when I was stuck. I tried not to abuse that, but it was hard, because he always  _ loved _ having you as a sitter, and you're great with him. And I know you helped your sister out a ton when her kids were born."

There's something she's not saying there, something she's trying not to show. Jonathan  _ hadn't _ been worried about Katie. "Is she okay?"

The detective glances at him, surprised. "Yeah, she's fine." But the shape is just slightly off, like she's carefully  _ not _ saying "now" at the end of that.

He sinks down a little, because he's definitely worried now, but maybe he's not supposed to ask about it —

"You are  _ terrifyingly _ good at that," the detective says. "Look, I'm not going to  _ swear _ she's perfectly fine or anything, because I haven't seen her in a while, and I don't want to turn up at her place to find out she has a cold or something and have you think I'm a liar. But  _ as far as I know _ , she's fine, and I'm not going to get into speculation about things that may  _ or may not _ have happened in your sister's life, because I don't actually know anything and it wouldn't be my place to talk if I did. You'll be able to decide for yourself in less than an hour. Okay?"

That's fair. He nods.

"Maybe magic  _ is _ real," she mutters. "I swear you're practically a mind-reader sometimes."

She isn't really mad, and she doesn't really mean it. She's just being a little grumpy, probably because she didn't mean to make him worry, and it sounds like there's an old private joke in there.

Jonathan isn't sure why she's making a big deal about it, though. She's been talking to him  _ all day _ , so it's easy to notice when she changes the way she's saying things. It's not mind-reading. It's just paying attention.

"Anyway." She pulls out her phone and does things to the screen. "Let's see if I have it on this phone." She keeps making swiping motions across the screen for a tediously long time, but then she taps it decisively and grins. "Here." She holds it over so he can see the screen clearly.

It's filled with a picture now. The foreground is a gleeful little boy of about two. He has a few colorful smears of brownish-red and yellow across one cheek and shoulder. He's being held midair at arm's length to face the camera by the guy from the police ID photo, only he's a bit younger here. The guy is wearing a suit and tie, and he's just a little blurry since the focus is on the boy, but it's obvious that he's a complete mess — tie askew, the same colors smeared all over his shirt and jacket and face and  _ hair _ .

The posture and expression are  _ take your terrible child _ , but they're for show, just being silly. The guy is  _ happy _ , clear even through the faint blurriness, even though — "Is that mustard?"

"And ketchup, yes. Apparently that was the day Lije discovered squeeze bottles at daycare."

"That's not very good babysitting," Jonathan has to point out. Messes happen sometimes, but parents shouldn't have to know about them.

"You didn't have any reason to know the condiments were suddenly squirt weapons. You didn't strangle him" — she's joking, she doesn't mean seriously — "when he decided to nail you first and then play keep-away. You managed to clean him up — mostly — and feed him and clean up the mess he made of the kitchen while he was still trying to finger-paint with it. I'm not about to judge you for distracting him into using  _ you _ as a canvas. And you wouldn't even let me pay for cleaning. I'm not sure you were able to save that shirt, or that jacket."

Probably not. Mustard and ketchup are both tough. And yeah, Jonathan would never have asked a kid's mom to pay for cleaning his clothes when he was the one who let them get dirty. "Shouldn't have been wearing a suit anyway," he mutters. That was obviously just asking for trouble.

"You were coming straight off work," she says. "Terry was somewhere over Des Moines or something, I had a — I really had to work a few more hours, and the daycare was closing. I had other options but none of them were great, and you offered. So we picked Lije up and I dropped you both off and headed back in. I think you  _ meant _ to change but never got the chance. Stop trying to find ways you screwed up, okay? You did me a huge favor that night and you did a great job."

He blushes a little and changes the subject. "Why does a phone show pictures?"

She takes the device back. "They're basically pocket computers at this point, yeah. But originally, they were just phones. Then the companies decided to add texting — sending text messages back and forth. And that was still using a phone keypad at the time, so — you've spelled things out on your phone at home, with the letters? This was like that, one character at a time. Then they added internet access — that's kind of a global information system. And they added cameras and other things, mostly so people would just buy new ones. And then they got touch screens working, or maybe just more affordable. That's probably when they really started being more computers than phones, but we were all used to the old name."

"Cameras?" How can a camera be so  _ flat _ ?

She's amused again by the question, for some reason. She shows him the different points on the phone that are apparently separate cameras and demonstrates what they can pick up. One of the images shows the two of them, her still professional, him shabbier and mostly hidden behind his pulled-up leg.

"Is it taking a picture of us now?" he asks.

"It could, if I tapped here, but no. I'd ask first. Not everyone does, by the way, so if you don't want your picture taken, keep an eye out for people holding a phone up like this, or —" she pulls back so that the phone is between them "— like this, okay?"

He nods.

"I would like to get a picture of you at some point, by the way, if you're willing," she says. "You're — okay, you'll hate if I say you're adorable, but you kind of are."

She's right, he doesn't like it. "Not right now," he half-says, half-asks.

She just agrees easily and turns back to show him how to take pictures of the pond. It's neat, definitely, and probably a lot more convenient than carrying around a real camera all the time, but it's kind of frustrating, too. The "zoom" just makes things bigger without really zooming, so they're blurry. The phone keeps trying to make its own decisions about where to focus, and they're usually pretty bad decisions. There's no real control over the depth of field. And there doesn't seem to be a good way to handle light levels right —

"Yep." She's laughing a little. "You're already a camera snob. I should have known."

"I am?" Jonathan can't imagine being a snob about  _ anything _ .

"Camera phones are handy, and they've gotten very good over time, but they haven't completely won over people who are used to traditional cameras. Like you. You were even a little grouchy about switching to a digital camera, apparently, but you still prefer to have … I don't know, lenses and filters and f-stops and all that stuff. You'll still use your phone's camera if you have to, but if you're heading out to take pictures, you use your full camera for that."

So he does stick with the camera. He likes that, because maybe it means he'll have something of his own. He's not very good yet — he only has so much film to play with, and  _ very _ little time — but while the detective has been teasing him about what kind of camera he likes, she hasn't been making fun of him for thinking it's worth spending time to go out and take pictures of things.

"I wonder …" She fiddles with the screen again. "I think you might have sent me a few." She swipes at her screen a lot again before showing him a picture of a cloud formation. It's neat, and it was probably really cool in reality, but the light levels are obviously flattened. She takes the phone back and swipes again. "Here. You were on vacation. I emailed you about something funny that happened at work and asked how your trip was going. That evening you emailed this back."

It's a lake in autumn, surrounded by and reflecting trees in a riot of colors, under a rich blue sky. The water and the trees  _ and the sky _ are all vivid and perfect, nothing washed out or underlit, which must have been super hard to get right. "Oh,  _ wow _ ," Jonathan breathes.

"It looks better in print than on a small screen, honestly. It makes for a great desktop wallpaper," she says. Or probably not — those were all real words but they don't make sense together, so he probably misheard, but he's too distracted by the photo to worry about it. "That's obviously from your real camera."

"First one wasn't, right?" She agrees, but she didn't even need to. The difference is clear. Jonathan's even willing to be called a snob, if it means he can do something like this.

Someday, at least.

He makes himself hand the phone back after a minute or two. The detective goes back to showing off the phone's camera, trying to sell him on its limited capabilities, but she's not really invested in it. It's just a way to fill some time. So Jonathan asks if she has any other pictures of her son.

It's exactly the right question, because it gives her a perfect reason to fill the silences. She has plenty, and she's more than happy to show off as many as he's willing to look at. The phone is very handy for that. It seems a lot more convenient than trying to pick just a few pictures to carry around in a wallet.

She shows pictures mostly in age order, though they don't seem to be sorted perfectly. In them the boy ranges from an infant all the way up to nearly fourteen — his birthday is apparently about a month away. He seems happy. Kids are pretty much always smiling in pictures, of course, when they're not distracted by something, but these aren't just plastic smiles over something else. Jonathan's not surprised, but he's … reassured, at this evidence the detective is a good mom.

She eventually decides she's "bored" him long enough and that they should get going. She asks him about the headache first, though. It really is almost gone, but she doesn't consider that close enough and has him take a second pill with the last of the juice. Then they gather up their trash and head back to the car.

When they get to the car, though, she makes him wait before getting in. "My phone's battery is getting a little low, which reminds me that yours probably won't last for several days without a charge. You could try to find a place to plug it in, but that's a good way to lose it. We should just turn it off." She opens the back door, takes the garment bag off the hook, and has him hold the bag while she unzips it.

Rather than starting to dig through the pockets, though, she just pulls out her own phone and taps at it. A few seconds later, the jacket in the garment bag starts buzzing. She uses the noise to determine which pocket to fish around in and extracts what must be his phone from that pocket.

"Can I —?" Jonathan starts to ask. But no, it's not really  _ his _ .

"You can try," the detective says, "but it's locked." She presses something that makes the screen light up and shows him the lock prompt. "So unless you can guess what four-digit-or-longer code you would have picked, all you can do with it is call 911."

He has no idea, obviously, so she turns it off and puts it away. He's curious about how 911 would work with these phones, though, since they've been moving from city to city. So he asks, and she explains as they drive mostly west again.

She mostly explains how poorly it works, honestly, at least in her opinion. Apparently they can tell exactly what address 911 calls are coming from now if they come from regular phones, but that doesn't work with phones that travel all over the place. It sounds pretty complicated.

He never really thought about that before, that technology getting more developed in one way might make other systems break down until they could catch up. There's still a small chance that this is all just a complicated dream, but … he doesn't think he would have come up with that detail.


	8. Spoilers

They drive on further, crossing into Newton. The road they've been on is mostly businesses, so it's hard to tell, but when they leave that road, the neighborhoods start to look expensive. Not mansions, but free-standing houses with actual yards, this close to Boston. Some of them are really big, probably historical.

The detective eventually slows in front of one of the more modest houses, before turning into its driveway and parking just behind the minivan there. The house is two stories, but it's just a normal size, and its yard is a bit cramped. That impression is only heightened by the  _ dozens _ of rose bushes, all bearing white flowers.

The detective gets out and gestures for Jonathan to follow, retrieving the garment bag from the back again. She starts to lead the way up to the front porch, sparing a low whistle for all the roses, but halfway there she shifts to put him in front. She places a hand on his upper back, more firmly than she's touched him before. He's not entirely sure if it's to reassure him or to keep him from bolting. Maybe both.

The front door opens just as they start up the few steps and a woman steps out. Jonathan … has no idea who she is. She's about Mom's age, or the detective's. With her dark brown hair and eyes, she kind of looks like she could be related to Dad, but her features are a little more like Aunt Bets. Jonathan doesn't recognize her at all.

She only has eyes for Jonathan, staring at him as he approaches. She covers her mouth with one hand for a moment. "Oh,  _ wow _ ," she says quietly. "This is — you've been —"

But then she gives him a sort of pretended scowl as he steps up onto the small, covered stoop.

"Okay, this  _ totally _ isn't fair," she says. "You're still taller than me."

And then with a sudden startling  _ shift _ he sees it. "Katie —" he says, or tries to, because this really is her. This is  _ her _ , this is his kid sister only she's Mom's age now, and the guy in the pictures is him, and decades have passed and this is all  _ real _ —

"Hey, hey, I got you," she says softly, wrapping her arms around him as he loses it a little.

Because he wants to go  _ home _ . He wants to go home but it doesn't  _ exist _ anymore, it's gone, his brothers and sisters have families of their own now, his parents — they must be in their seventies or something now if they're even still — he doesn't dare  _ ask _ —

She just holds on to him, making soothing noises, and eventually he manages to pull himself back together. He draws back and swipes hastily at his face with a sleeve. "Sorry."

"Don't." She reaches over to brush his hair away from his eyes a bit and then sort of cradles the side of his head. He leans into it for just a moment before making himself straighten up. She's looking at him intently. "Okay?"

He nods and then risks an embarrassed glance back, but the detective is gone. "Where —?"

"She headed on out," the — Katie says. "She'll be back tomorrow, around ten or so. Is that okay?"

He nods again, helplessly grateful that the detective is so much more careful of his dignity than  _ he _ is.

"Come on inside," Katie says as she takes hold of the garment bag, which the detective apparently left hooked onto the rail. "Careful, don't let the cats out." This is in reference to the two cats eyeing the doorway. As he steps inside, the grey one hurries away, while the tabby sniffs his shoes for a second before rubbing his leg once and then wandering off into the house.

She hooks the bag on the rack just inside the door. "We don't have long before the kids get home from school, and we're going to have to explain this to them, because they're used to their Uncle Jon being older than their mom." Her tone is apologetic, because she knows how unappealing that sounds. "Before then — I'm used to you knowing where everything is, so I'll just give you a quick tour, okay?"

He just nods yet again. That makes sense, and she's like Dad, not minding much when he doesn't really feel like talking. She gives him a quick sideways hug and shows him around.

The area just behind the front door is a small entryway in front of stairs leading up, with a narrow hall past them. To the left is a small dining room, but the table is cluttered with papers and yet another flat device, though this one is closer to the size of a school binder. Behind that room is the kitchen, with a table at the far end overlooking the backyard.

Behind the stairs is the back door, along with a tiny half-bath, a door under the stairs that probably leads down to a basement, and a couple of racks of sports gear and shoes in varying sizes. He can't help smiling at that.

On the other side of the back door is a comfortable family room with a surprisingly large and by-now-unsurprisingly flat television. The room's not dirty or anything, but a few books and gadgets are scattered around. In front of that room is a small, more formal living room, with a devotional table to one side. There's a spot that looks like it used to be a fireplace but was covered over, and there are a bunch of photos on the mantel that remains over it.

Upstairs is a full bathroom and four bedrooms. The angles are awkward, suggesting some kind of reconfiguration was needed to end up with that many.

"Usually you just take the couch when you stay over," Katie says. "Is that okay now? We could put you in with Mikey, but his room's tiny, and you'd just have an air mattress on the floor. Or we could ask the girls to pair up for a few days —"

"The couch is fine," Jonathan says quickly. He's never had a room to himself and honestly the idea of  _ not _ having to share is strange to him, but he doesn't want to get in the way of … his nephew and nieces, apparently?

This is  _ so weird _ .

Katie opens the narrow door to what turns out to be a small hall closet. She pulls out a duffel bag and hands it to him, and then she grabs a short pillow-and-blanket pile herself. They head back down to the family room and leave those items at one end of the larger couch.

Jonathan wonders for a minute why he seems to have duffel bags stashed all around the region, but Katie did suggest that he stays over a lot, and the detective said he helped with both their kids. So it's probably handy to have stuff available in both places, just in case.

It still seems a little overboard, but the detective did seem to be trying to tease him about over-preparing earlier. He thinks.

The front door opens sharply and then closes firmly. "Hi Mom bye Mom!" a girl shouts as she runs up the stairs.

Katie goes over to the foot of the stairs. "Nope!" she calls. "About-face!"

A door upstairs opens. "I told you!" the girl's voice calls back, moving further away.

"I know! Change of plans! And come here so we can stop shouting!"

A pale face haloed with dark, curly hair appears over the edge of the railing. "Whaaaat?" she says, at a lower volume. Then she spots Jonathan behind her mother's shoulder and tilts her head. "Hi. Do I know you?"

"Spoilers, sweetie," Katie says before Jonathan can even begin to know how to answer. The first word doesn't make any sense, but the girl's eyes crinkle in a surprised kind of delight. "I need you to meet the littles and make sure they come straight home. I'll make it up later."

The girl sighs gustily. " _ Fiiiiiiine _ but you  _ ooooowe _ me."

"I know," Katie says. She's still smiling, but there's something a little tense in her voice.

The girl thunders back down the stairs, gives Katie a swift tight hug in passing, and flies out the door. She only looks about thirteen or fourteen, and it sounds like she's the oldest. Jonathan kind of thought Katie's kids would be older than that. But he's never been any good at math.

"Figure we'll get it over with all at once," Katie says. "That was Emma, by the way. The other two are Sarah and Michael." She hesitates, suddenly looking uncertain. "Do you … need anything? A snack, or a drink …?"

Jonathan shakes his head and tries not to let his shoulders tighten up too obviously. "Thanks for letting me stay with you. You don't have to — I'll stay out of your way —"

"Argh." She swats him very lightly. "Stop that. You're not in the way, you're not an imposition, you can always, always, always stay with me. I just don't want you to be bored, and most of my tools for entertaining teenagers probably won't appeal to you."

"You can just do what you normally would," Jonathan says. "I know you've got tons to do. I could … maybe help? With something?"

"I only get you like this for a few days, as far as I know," Katie says, as if his being wrong by decades is somehow a treat. "I'm not going to make you do  _ chores _ for them. But you can come keep me company while I unload the van, if you want."

It turns out that she teaches tennis several days a week, both as classes and as private lessons, and that's why she got home only shortly before Jonathan arrived. The minivan is parked in front of a garage. She opens the garage door, revealing that the garage is too full of various items for the minivan to fit. Then she opens the back of the minivan and starts taking out her gear, so Jonathan grabs some as well and follows her.

She has racks for her gear along one side of the garage. At first Jonathan leaves her to put things away, but as she does so, he starts to see how everything is supposed to be organized. A few things aren't where they belong, probably just tossed there in a hurry by her or one of the kids, so he starts sorting them out.

Katie comes back from the minivan with another batch of equipment and makes an exasperated noise. "You do not have to  _ clean _ my  _ garage _ ."

"I'm not," he says, entirely truthfully. He's just sorting out this one thing. He likes straightening up, because clutter makes him feel distracted and unfocused, so organizing stuff outside his head feels a little like he's organizing stuff inside his head at the same time.

It sounds kind of crazy to say that, though, so he doesn't.

"I'm just keeping busy," he says instead. "Staying off the streets. I've got time to lean."

She smiles as she recognizes some of Mom's  _ get cleaning _ lines. "I will never understand how you shared a room with Chris," she says.

He's surprised into a quick laugh, because yeah, Chris definitely gives him plenty of practice straightening up. Or, no,  _ gave _ . It's supposed to be  _ gave _ . He looks down at the plastic-and-feathers thing in his hand, having lost track of where it goes.

Katie takes it from him gently and puts it where it belongs. "Sorry. I know this has to be  _ so strange _ for you. If it helps, I have it on very good authority that he's still a housekeeping disaster. I think Mom still doesn't know what —"

Every bit of air he's  _ ever breathed _ leaves him in a rush. Mom —

"Whoa, okay, okay, sorry. I should have said, I should — they're fine. They're fine, Jonny. They're retired — mostly — they still live in our old house. They're fine, Mom and Dad both, they're fine. And Mary Ellen and Chris and Jamie, everybody's fine. I'm such a jerk, I'm sorry."

Jonathan shakes his head sharply because this  _ isn't her fault _ and then presses a hand tightly over his face. He is  _ not _ going to keep crying at her. "You're not. You're not. I just — I was scared to ask. Sorry."

He's still facing the equipment racks, so he's sideways to her. She wraps him in a hug anyway, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "Ugh, we're such a pair," she says with a sniffle. "Quit apologizing. I know you're supposed to be the big brother — and you are, you're great, number one ever — but right now it's  _ my _ job to think about this stuff. I should have realized you'd worry."

He just breathes for a bit, getting himself back under control  _ again _ . "Can't be number one," he says finally. "Chris —"

"Nope. For once I know stuff you don't. Chris is a great big brother, but you're better."

That doesn't make any sense. The detective's phrasing comes to mind:  _ technically, he outranks me. _ "He's  _ my _ big brother, so I can't —"

" _ Nope _ . Final decision, no appeal." She rubs his arm briskly and then lets him go. "Come on, let's get out of here. A garage is a terrible place to hang out."

She closes the garage and the back of the minivan. Back inside, he takes a minute to splash his face in the half-bathroom, and that actually does help him feel a little better.

"Do you want to look at pictures for a while?" Katie asks. "I can fill you in on everyone's families."

"Actually, could I just … have a few minutes?"

"Of course. You sure? Then I'll be in the kitchen."

Jonathan goes up into the formal living room. Prayer can be anywhere, of course, but he's less likely to be underfoot here, and he really needs the comfort of sacramentals right now.

For all the  _ stuff _ in the pockets of the — of his older self's suit, Jonathan hadn't run across a rosary. He probably just didn't look hard enough, and he hadn't wanted to rummage through things that really didn't feel like they were his, but the absence has left him feeling unmoored and adrift. Well, he's been that  _ anyway _ , of course, but even more so.

There's a rosary on the devotional table, and his fingers  _ ache _ to take it up. He's not sure he really has time for a full rosary, though, and having to break off partway through always just makes him feel interrupted and incomplete for the rest of the day — and he realizes suddenly that he's not actually even sure what  _ day of the week _ it is. A school day, but that's not enough.

So he just kneels and crosses himself, says Our Father to settle his mind, and tries to focus on his more personal prayers.

He's never really been any  _ good _ at finding words for his own prayers, not since he outgrew the simple formula he'd used when he was very small, asking to bless each of his family members. The rosary, the standard prayers, those give him a framework and structure. Security. Focus. Without those, all he really has are vague thoughts that don't feel nearly strong enough to carry his feelings.

But he knows gratitude well enough, and he concentrates on that. For his family, his parents and brothers and sisters, that they're all safe and healthy and happy. For whatever it was that guided his older self into a real, respectable, good job where maybe he's able to help people. For Detective Smith, who obviously helps him keep that job and who was so impossibly  _ kind _ all day.

For Katie, so much for Katie, that she's fine and happy and  _ here _ , somehow, rather than back home, hours away.

It feels selfish to go from there to his own imperfections. Those are his everywhere prayer, really, underneath everything, behind every thought. He's even less able to put words to this, or maybe less willing. All he can manage for this is  _ please _ , silently, over and over.  _ Please help me, please _ .

All he feels is empty, despite his desperation, all the more stark after the warmth of gratitude. It's hard not to take that as an answer, but it's not. It  _ can't _ be.

He needs to talk to Katie later. Maybe tonight, after her kids are in bed. He doesn't want to say anything — he doesn't want to remind her about this, which must be old and forgotten for her by now — but he has to. He can't just choose to remain like — like this when he knows there's an answer, something he can do or say or even just know will happen. Did happen, technically.

The front door bursts open, scattering his thoughts. In a sort of controlled roar, still moving, Emma proclaims, "I ... found … them!" The last word is just behind Jonathan. In a more normal volume, she says a quick, "Oops, sorry," and her footsteps head the other way as she resumes her proclamation. "I dueled dire dragons!" She proceeds from dining room to kitchen. "I forded fearsome, um, fjords!"

Weird. That sounds like a little game Jonathan plays, just to himself.  _ Fjords _ is definitely pushing it, though.

She's coming back around from the kitchen. "And I! am!  _ victorious! _ " she decrees as, by the sound, she flops onto a couch in the family room.

"Mom, Emma's being weird," a different girl complains, still at the front door.

"Mom, Emma's  _ always _ weird," a boy chimes in.

Emma cackles. "Yes! For I am the Wizard of Weird! No — I am the Weirdzard!"

Jonathan very nearly snorts. Instead he wraps up with Our Father again and stands.

"Emma, that was  _ terrible _ ," Katie says fondly as she enters the family room. She bends over to kiss Emma on the top of the head and then catches Jonathan's eye. She motions for him to join her. "Mikey, Sar, in here please."

The two younger kids troop in behind Jonathan, giving him curious looks as they accept their own head-kisses and then move over to sit on the couch Emma isn't sprawled across. They're close in age, somewhere around ten, the boy being the younger one.

Katie reaches out to Jonathan, so he goes over to stand beside her. She rubs his back as she turns to face the kids.

"Ooh, spoilers!" Emma exclaims, sitting up.

"Yep, spoilers," Katie says. "You've all heard about that WAM thing, right? Where people are  _ temporarily _ getting turned younger?"

Michael shrugs and Sarah mumbles, "I guess." Emma glances back and forth between Katie and Jonathan and then claps a hand over her mouth in a sort of horrified delight.

"So, he's  _ fine _ , but your Uncle Jon sort of … got wammied."

Both younger kids look alarmed at that and start demanding assurances that their uncle is  _ really _ okay. Jonathan lifts one hand in a halfhearted wave.

Emma pops up and hugs him. "Hi, Uncle Jon. Sorry I didn't recognize you before." Behind her, the other two go quiet as they understand who he is.

"Um." He carefully hugs her back. "Same to you?"

"Oh!" She pulls back. "I'm Emma, and Sarah-Mikey-Mom —"

"Thanks, honey," Katie says quickly. "I wanted you all to know what happened and that he's totally fine. He's going to be staying with us until it wears off. But he's not going to remember stuff, okay? So it might be easier if you just pretend he's a cousin you don't really know until he's back to normal."

Michael looks briefly disappointed but shrugs. "Can I go play, then?"

"Homework?"

"Did it at school." At Katie's acceptance, he leaves the room and goes out the back door.

"Um … I'm gonna go finish mine," Sarah says. She gives Jonathan worried looks as she leaves the room and then, by the sound of her footsteps, heads upstairs.

"I'll help make dinner," Emma announces.

"That's okay, I've got it," Katie says, and that odd tension is back. "You can do your homework, or just do something of your own if it's done."

"Nah. Homework's easy. And Uncle Jon will want to help you, so I'll help too so I can hang out."

"I never thought that children being  _ too helpful _ would be a problem in my life," Katie complains. " _ I can make dinner _ , all by myself. You're both welcome to hang out with me if you want. Or you could go kick a ball around or play cards or something."

"Card games are boring with two people, you just keep skipping each other. Mikey wanted to practice penalty shots, and Uncle Jon likes baseball better anyway and our yard's too small. You should go talk to Sarah first and then start dinner. What's for dinner?"

"Sarah?"

"She's scared."

Katie nods as if she'd thought the same and just wanted confirmation. Then she smiles at Jonathan. "For dinner, I was thinking meatloaf and mashed potatoes …"

Oh. She  _ remembers _ . And she's waiting for him to finish. "And anything but —"

" _ Lima beans _ ," they both finish with him. Katie continues, "I was thinking corn, if that's okay?"

"Corn's okay," Jonathan agrees, feeling a little dazed.

"Great. Now go  _ play _ , you two." With a wicked grin, Katie then reaches over and messes up Jonathan's hair before hurrying away from his automatic but futile attempt to retaliate, which is hampered by his knowledge that she's an  _ adult _ .


	9. Dinner

Emma waits for Jonathan to swat his hair back down and then takes his hand. "Come on." She leads him to the kitchen. "We can get everything set up."

"She — um, your mom —"

"Mom worries too much. I blame Disney. I promise I'm not Cinderella." She twirls her way to a cabinet and starts taking out mixing bowls. "We like helping out, you and me. We're Team Helpful. You know what spices, right? She makes Grandma's recipe for you. Was meatloaf always your special dinner, then?"

"Yeah." Jonathan looks around for the spice rack and finally finds it. He goes over and starts looking for the right spices, bracing himself for whatever she's going to say next.

"It's okay," she says. "I'm not making fun." He blinks at that, half in surprise that she's not and half that she knows he was expecting her to. She sets her stack of bowls on the counter and heads to a different cabinet. "You and Mom say Uncle Chris always asked for steak. Steak's okay, but it's really just a kind of boring meat and it's expensive. I always ask for tacos — they're fun and pretty easy and I think they have to be cheaper than steak and everybody can make them how they want. So they make me happy." She adds an onion and a bag of potatoes to the counter and heads for the fridge. "Sarah usually likes pizza, which gets complicated to order sometimes but is still pretty easy. Mikey used to like stew but lately he likes lasagna. That takes forever to cook. You can sort the spices if you want. Mom never puts them back right and it makes you feel better."

"I ..." Jonathan carefully adds the selected spices to her collection. "It does?"

"Yeah." She gives him a surprised look. "Oh, did you forget that, too? You like when stuff is where it should be. A place for everything. Or, wait, did you just forget I know? I helped you clean up when you used to come over to watch the littles. I'm old enough to do that now but I wasn't then. You showed me how it's easier to clean stuff up if you mostly keep it in the right places. I just don't always remember to."

That doesn't really explain why she knows something like sorting a spice rack makes him feel better. He likes her — she's kind of exhausting, but so obviously  _ good _ — but he's coming to the sinking realization that he is  _ absolutely not _ invisible to her. "Should that really be out yet?" he asks.

Emma considers the package of hamburger she's just set out. "Oh. Maybe not." She puts it back, quickly cleans that spot on the counter, and washes her hands. Then she turns to face him and smiles a little. "Sorry. I'm kind of a lot, I know. I forgot you're not used to me yet. You should sort the spices. It really will make you feel better, promise."

He obeys, partly for lack of anything better to do and partly because it means he can face away from her, which might keep her from seeing  _ quite _ so much. She doesn't seem to mind. She just starts to sing something that involves the phrase  _ shake it off _ rather a lot, dancing around the kitchen as she gathers more supplies and then starts peeling potatoes.

"When did Taylor Swift invade my kitchen, and how do I make her go away?" Katie asks. It's a joke of some kind, apparently aimed at Emma. "And why is it that  _ neither _ of you seems to understand what the word  _ play _ means?"

"We are playing!" Emma replies. "I'm playing the princess who's helping cook for company, and Uncle Jon is playing the amnesiac prince for whom we are preparing such a feast. He's far too gallant and honorable to just sit around and be served."

"Little on the nose, there, kid," Katie mutters. "Enough. Scram."

Jonathan is trying to get the last few spices in place before he can get fussed at, but Emma comes over, dragging the spotlight with her. "What's the pattern today? Oh, alphabetical? That's cool." She seems faintly disappointed.

"What else …?"

"Sometimes you do bottle shapes, or languages. You tried to do spice colors once, but that didn't really work. Sometimes you do label colors, though." Jonathan looks at the rack again. That  _ would _ explain some of the smaller patterns he'd found.

"Wait," Katie says. "Wait a second. Jon, that's  _ you _ ? Emma, I thought you were the one always switching the spices around."

"... Oops. Um. I … am! Yes, it's me, you'll never take me alive —!"

"Can it, kid. I'm on to you both. Go sit at the table, both of you."

They slink over. "Sorry I ratted you out, Uncle Jon," Emma mutters from one side of her mouth, like an old movie. He shrugs. Katie doesn't really seem mad at  _ him _ right now, and his older self can deal with the rest of it later.

Katie starts rearranging things so she can start preparing dinner properly. Emma lasts about two minutes in a chair before she's up again, mostly hovering but occasionally turning up with the next item Katie will need.

Jonathan doesn't dare to join her. He'd only be in the way. He finds that if he turns the chair and sits in it sideways, he can kick off his shoes, pull both heels up onto the edge of the chair, and hug his knees close as he watches them.

They discuss Sarah, who is apparently worried that her uncle won't come back. She's worried that someone might show up at school and start "wammying" kids left and right, for some reason. She's worried that no one will ever figure out how to stop what they keep calling "the WAM process". The way they talk about her, Sarah worries a lot, but they think Katie's talk with her will have helped.

Katie looks over at Jonathan after a few minutes and frowns. "You okay?"

He nods. "What does  _ spoilers _ mean?"

Katie smiles and shakes her head a little. "Emma, I do believe that's your cue."

Emma inhales dramatically, eyes wide, and clasps her hands together over her heart. "My life has been preparation for  _ this moment _ ."

She explains about plots and how people can "spoil" them, and she moves on from there to relating a story that used the idea of spoilers as part of the plot. She calls that show  _ Doctor Who _ , and he's surprised that the name sounds familiar, though all he remembers is something about a scarf and spooky credit music. For a moment he privately wonders if he's remembered something from his future self, but Emma soon clarifies that the show she's talking about is the same as one from the '80s and even before, somehow. She explains reboots and remakes. She describes what could well be every season the show ever had, or possibly every episode.

She talks and talks and  _ talks _ , filling every silence, filling silences that haven't been created yet, chasing them out of the house and barring the door with a  _ good riddance _ . He drifts a little.

Until a silence sneaks up somehow and pounces on him. He looks up, confused.

"Sorry. Did I wake you up?" Emma is trying to keep her voice down. "Did you want to go take a nap?"

They're both watching him, both worried.

Jonathan is pretty sure he wasn't  _ actually _ asleep. He shakes his head. "Just … thinking. Sorry." He listens back through the echoes in his head, because he was mostly following what she was saying. "You were talking about a girl named Rose, but then you asked me something?" The sudden change of topic and conversational flow had lost him.

"If you saw the roses outside. It's okay."

They were hard to miss. "I did. They're pretty." Mrs. Sullivan down the street back home has roses, though hers are red and pink. They seem like a lot of work.

"They were my first mom's. She died when I was a baby." Emma leaves the kitchen.

Jonathan's  _ definitely _ alert now. Should he go after her? He looks to Katie, who just gives him a small, slightly sad smile and goes back to checking the pot on the stove.

Before he can decide, Emma returns, carrying something. She sits down next to him. "This was my first mom." She holds the framed photograph so he can see it. She's not upset. "I remembered that you probably didn't remember."

The photograph seems to be of the front garden of this same house. A woman with dark, curly hair like Emma's is kneeling among fewer, smaller plants. The woman is wearing coveralls, her head thrown back in a laugh, a smear of dirt across her nose and a trowel in her hand.

"She looks nice," Jonathan says. It's trite and  _ terrible _ but he can't think of anything else to say.

"Thanks." She gets up, sets the picture on the counter carefully, and hugs Katie tightly from behind. "Love you love you, second-Mom."

"Love you love you, first kiddo," Katie answers, and Jonathan finally gets it — the slight tension, the comment about not being Cinderella.  _ Mom worries too much _ .

Emma takes the photograph back — probably to the formal living room, based on how little time it takes — and returns to the kitchen. "Did you know first-Mom?"

"I think we all saw each other a few times," Katie says. Emma clearly knows this answer but likes hearing it. "Uncle Jon would take me to Frappery sometimes when I came up to visit, and your mom and dad —"

" _ First _ mom and dad," Emma corrects firmly.

"Your  _ first _ mom and your dad liked it too," Katie amends. "We were all there at the same time often enough to say hi."

"And then first-Mom was pregnant with me," Emma prompts. Jonathan isn't sure whether she's making sure this story gets told again for his benefit or simply because she finds it comforting. It could be both.

"And we  _ can't be sure _ , but I  _ think _ maybe Uncle Jon offered her his seat once when she was pregnant with you," Katie continues, moving to the sink. "But we didn't really know them well enough to remember for sure."

"And then she had me, and then she died," Emma says, solemn.

Katie hugs her swiftly on the way to the oven. "And then your dad brought you to Frappery, and someone was being  _ awful _ to him —" Wow, she's still  _ furious _ about whatever it was, under the light tone. "— so your Uncle Jon made her go away while I talked with your dad and met you." Jonathan is startled to have any kind of an active role in this story.

"And you fell in love with us and married Daddy and had the littles, The End," Emma finishes.

"The Middle, kiddo, we're not done yet."

Emma grins, satisfied. "Can we go to Frappery after dinner?"

"No way. School night. Besides, your poor Uncle Jon has been all over Boston today already, from what I hear, and he has to go back tomorrow." Emma pouts dramatically until Katie adds, "But we've got some Frappery in the freezer, so we can have that for dessert." Emma cheers at that.

Then she comes over and slips her fingers into Jonathan's hand, tugging just a little to persuade him to unfold himself. "Come help me set the table," she suggests. "I'll show you where everything is."

He agrees quickly, relieved at the prospect of something to do that won't be in the way. She leads him to a cabinet and starts stacking plates in his hands. "We're six with you, except when Daddy has to work late. I think he probably does tonight. Mom, is Daddy working late tonight?"

"Daddy is working late tonight," Katie confirms.

Emma turns back to Jonathan and informs him, "Daddy is working late tonight," as if they weren't all just a few feet apart. She looks delighted when he smiles a little at their silliness. "So we're just five tonight. And  _ working late _ is really. It's not a youp — a you — "

"A euphemism," Katie supplies.

" _ Euphemism _ . It's not one of those. When people say it on TV, it means cheating, but Daddy would never ever. He really is working late. This is a code freeze week," she adds significantly. She frowns at his clear incomprehension and clarifies, "For software." Then she frowns even harder. "For  _ computers _ . Did you forget  _ everything _ ?"

"Go easy, my child of the internet age," Katie says. "We didn't grow up with that stuff. Computers  _ existed _ , but how they worked wasn't really an everyday thing for us. We didn't have one at home at all."

Emma points out which chair at the kitchen table should be skipped. "But — but how did you Google? Or check Wikipedia?"

"Printed encyclopedias," Katie says. "Card catalogs.  _ Microfiche _ ."

Jonathan hastily rescues the glasses Emma is carrying as she pantomimes a dramatic death of shock. Or possibly just of distaste for perfectly ordinary research tools. He probably shouldn't agree that he kind of hates them all himself, so he just goes to get more glasses. After he puts those on the table, too, he turns to try to figure out where the silverware is, and after a few seconds Emma stages enough of a recovery to join back in and show him.

Once the table has been set, Katie has him take over mashing the potatoes while she goes to get Sarah and Michael started on their pre-dinner chores. Apparently tonight that means that Michael feeds the cats, who promptly become  _ very _ vocal, while Sarah scoops their boxes. They then have to wash up, and the kitchen soon becomes crowded with pre-dinner preparations.

Jonathan just keeps mashing the potatoes until Katie comes back and declares them  _ quite _ finished. He moves over by the sink, since now that's slightly less busy. Emma is helping move food to the table, but after a minute or two she guides him over to what she declares is his chair. It's closer to the windows, which is a relief since it's more out of the way, and it's between the end of the table where Katie will be sitting and the seat Emma says is hers.

He leans back against the wall, feeling awkward, until everyone's ready, and then they all sit down. Katie then suggests that Jonathan say grace, which he does with a shy pleasure.

"How come you remember Grandma's meatloaf but not us?" Emma asks once they start eating.

Jonathan tries to remember how the detective described what happened to him. It made sense when she said it, mostly.

"It's like Cap, honey," Katie says. "At least, that's how it sounds from the news. It's not that he's forgotten everything, or random things. It's more like his memory has been erased —  _ temporarily _ — all the way back to when he was this age. So for him it's almost like he jumped straight here from … what year was it, Jon? Tonya said you're seventeen and … 1985?"

"That's  _ so long _ ago!" Michael marvels.

"How old were you then, Mom?" Sarah asks.

"Fourteen," Jonathan supplies when Katie pauses a moment to work it out. "Almost fifteen, but not next week or anything." Katie is curious about the specific timing, so he explains what he and the detective worked out — sometime after the middle of February, and not yet May, but nothing more specific than that. The blurriness makes him uncomfortable, so he asks, "What's Cap?"

Emma proceeds to tell him everything about Captain America, based on a somewhat recent movie or series of movies she's liked. As she does that, Katie turns her attention to Sarah and Michael, talking to them about their day, making sure they both get plenty of attention.

She's such a great mom. He's not surprised, but he's glad.

Emma's recounting of movie plots takes most of dinner. Once she finishes, Katie tries to give Jonathan a turn talking to the rest of the table, but he passes, though he's grateful. He doesn't have anything to say that would interest them, even if his day hadn't been pretty embarrassing. It's nice to listen to the rest of them as they talk about their lives.

Frappery turns out to make ice cream, which makes sense when Jonathan remembers the odd local word for milkshakes. Emma tries to insist that he be given a coffee-based flavor, claiming it's his favorite, but Katie intervenes because it's made with real coffee and she's worried it will keep him up all night. He ends up with chocolate. It's heavier than he's used to, richer, but pretty good.

He offers to help with the after-dinner clean-up, but that's apparently Michael and Sarah's job, and they seem to have a system that he would just mess up. Emma has homework to do, so she spreads out her books on the dining room table, but then she suggests that Jonathan help her with it. He's not sure that's such a great idea — she's just started eighth grade, so he  _ ought _ to know what she's studying already and he passed everything in his version of that grade without too much worry, but lessons have probably changed a lot since then.

It turns out she just wants someone to be a sounding board so she can talk her way through her work, which isn't so bad. He's soon glad to be busy when Sarah and Michael finish up in the kitchen and go to watch something on the television. Usually he can take or leave TV, but considering how his day has gone so far, he probably wouldn't understand any of it.

Eventually the kids start getting ready for bed, brushing teeth and changing clothes and trooping up and down the stairs for one last thing. Jonathan doesn't see any kind of pajamas in the duffel bag, but he often uses sweats for that anyway, so he figures he can just sleep in the same clothes he's already wearing. There's a toothbrush in a plastic bag, but  _ ew _ . Katie finds a new one for him instead.

Emma ends up heading upstairs when the younger two head for bed. Jonathan honestly expected she would ask to stay up later, and it looks like Katie thought the same, but Emma says she's going to make sure the other two really go to bed and then will read a while. Jonathan isn't positive, but he thinks she might want to talk to them a bit and make sure they're both okay, since she obviously likes taking care of people.

Katie places the pillow at one end of the couch and quickly refolds the blanket so it'll be easier for him to cover himself with it once he's lying down. "For when you're ready," she says. "I'm not going to make you go to bed just yet." There's no overhead light in this room, so there are several lamps. Katie turns off a couple but leaves on the one he'll be able to reach easily when he does lie down.

It's early for him, but he almost feels like he could sleep soon. He's full and safe and strangely tired for having done so little all day.

"Do you want to watch something?" Katie asks. "We have a few movies you'd probably like."

He's not very interested, but he goes ahead and sits down on the couch he's been assigned. "I feel like I should be doing homework," he admits. He's been working on catching up and keeping up for  _ so long _ . He's forgotten what to  _ do _ with a free evening.

He needs to talk to Katie. He really doesn't want to bring it up. Besides, she's probably got other stuff she needs to take care of.

But she sits down next to him and rubs his back. "Yeah, things were still pretty rough, weren't they? You did pass everything, though. And you graduated on time. Everything turned out fine."

Oh. He's  _ done _ . That probably should have been obvious, but he didn't really think about it. "No more trig?" he realizes. "Or five-page essays for Spanish?" This is  _ great _ .

"All done," she agrees. "So. Movie?"

"You can put something on if you want," Jonathan offers. He  _ is _ tying up her TV room, and he wouldn't mind.

She sighs a little. "And you can say no if you want. I just don't want you to be bored. And I don't want you to feel like you have to do chores," she adds quickly, before he can even suggest helping with something.

"I'm not bored," he says. He hasn't had a chance to be bored all day, really.

But she's right that there's not much for him to do, if he doesn't have mountains of homework to plow through. And he doesn't really want to be alone with his thoughts.

"You're happy?" he asks. He thinks she is, but he wants to be sure.

"Very," she says firmly. She really does mean it, so he relaxes a little. "Are you really okay? I know this is all so weird. It shouldn't even be  _ possible _ . You haven't said much about how things went for you today. It must have been pretty scary to just ... show up in a strange place. That's what it must have been like, right?"

"Yeah. It was confusing. But Detective Smith made sure to explain things. She said that — that we're partners? Her and future-me, I mean." He doesn't think she was lying or anything, but it seems hard to believe.

"You are," Katie confirms. "You're also pretty good friends."

That sounds really nice. And it means future-him really is a detective, somehow. Jonathan still can't figure out how  _ that _ happened.

But … his grades weren't always terrible. They weren't  _ great _ , but they were okay, before he realized he's — what he is. Maybe the problem really is just that he's been so distracted, and maybe he figures out how to fix it soon, and that's how he can pass all those tests.

He doesn't want to ask Katie.

She must have forgotten about it by now, right? It's been almost  _ thirty years _ . It's all too current for him now, but if it was just a few years for her, so long ago —

"Just a few years", as if the past year and a half hasn't been so,  _ so _ long —

"What's wrong?" Katie asks. And yeah, if he keeps messing with the cuffs of his sleeves like this, he's probably going to fray or tear them or something.

But the doors are open. Emma might not be asleep yet, and she's been so nice to him, and she obviously doesn't know what he is. He has no idea how sound carries in this house, and with his luck she might come downstairs for a glass of water or something, and he  _ doesn't want her to know _ . "It's nothing," he says, trying not to mumble and pretty much failing.

But Katie saw him looking at the doors. She gets up and closes the one to the front room, then the one to the back entry. She comes back to sit next to him again, keeping her voice down as she says, "Jonny. What's  _ wrong _ ?"

"How do I fix it?" he blurts, and he didn't mean to say anything, he  _ didn't _ , but he can't go the "few days" they've mentioned knowing there's an answer when he hasn't been able to find it himself.

"Fix …" Katie says, not getting it. Or maybe not wanting —

"I told you something. About — about me. After —" but no, he does  _ not _ want to talk about that, either. "You know. After. I told you I was — I'm not — I don't —"

He  _ can't say it _ .

But he doesn't have to, because Katie remembers. She knows what he's talking about — failing to talk about — and her expression shifts —

"I fix it, right?" he demands desperately. "Because I get to be a cop and have a partner and your kids all  _ like _ me and I have — I get —"

Her expression is  _ all wrong _ . It's pity and it's something fierce and it's —

"I was wearing a ring," he insists. "So I  _ have _ to fix it, right? If I'm married then I  _ have _ to have figured out how to — how to like —"

"Don't," Katie says. "Oh, Jonny, don't. You didn't need to  _ fix _ anything. There is  _ nothing wrong with you _ ."

He tries to pull away, but she takes his hands in hers and holds them tightly.

"There is  _ nothing _ wrong with you," she repeats. She's starting to tear up. "You are not broken or wrong or — or any of the awful things we used to think."

He's shaking his head because this is all wrong. She was supposed to give him the answer and she's not making  _ any sense _ .

"You just like guys instead of girls," she says, and he flinches. How can she say that so  _ casually _ ? She squeezes his hands tighter. "That's  _ fine _ . It's just how you're wired, it's how you're made, and it's  _ fine _ . I promise, Jonny, I  _ promise _ , there is  _ nothing wrong with you _ ."

He tries to pull away again, because he needs to get away, he needs to run, because this — this isn't what he — this isn't  _ right _ . She was supposed to  _ know _ . He's been praying so hard for  _ so long, _ and for ... nothing. For  _ silence _ . And if she's right, if he  _ gives up _ , then that means  _ thirty more years _ wouldn't be enough, thirty years of indifference, of silence —

Katie still holds him tight, though, and he falls apart.


	10. Supervision

This isn't _fair_.

Katie hates when the kids make that complaint, because there's rarely anything to be done about it. She's fair with them, but she can't make the rest of the world do the same. All she usually can do is help them deal with whatever it is.

But this absolutely is _not fair_. Jon's already been through this once. He shouldn't have to go through it all over again.

She's been fooling herself all day — hoping that this process wouldn't reconstruct her brother's younger self _that_ accurately, maybe, or just hoping that he wouldn't worry too much about it for the next few days. Which was pretty damn foolish of her, because she was _there_ the first time. She was the only person he'd trusted with the truth, which meant she was the person who helped him try to find some kind of answer or cure.

She really should have known better. It took both of them _years_ the first time around, along with some frankly heroic work on Andy's part to get them to see past their close-minded upbringing.

She's selfishly tempted to call Andy now, but she knows that wouldn't do any good. He would absolutely be willing to try to help, but he would just be a stranger to this version of Jon.

She tries to hold Jon, but he pulls away and buries his face in the pillow. Even now, even sobbing like his world is ending — which, in a way, it is — he's trying to be so damn _quiet_.

 _He cries sometimes_ , Jamie said. They were having an emergency family meeting, trying to figure out what had happened to Jon and how no one had _noticed_ , for _months_ , and Jamie eventually mentioned that. _He cries sometimes, when he thinks I'm asleep_. Jamie had been reluctant to reveal such an embarrassing secret of the big brother who protected him from bullies. Chris, just on the other side of the room from their bunks, had never heard anything.

And then Jon let everyone think that his failing grades were the problem rather than just another symptom of distress. Everyone but her, because he trusted her and felt like he owed her the truth.

Here she is, doing such a _great_ job of deserving that. All she has to do is keep him happy and healthy for a few days, until he's back to himself. She's already failed at the first half. That doesn't bode well for the second.

She rests a hand on his shoulder, just to let him know he's not alone. He doesn't pull away from her again, at least. She wants to keep talking, trying to help him understand, but he's beyond hearing her and he's not ready to anyway. So she just sits there, her heart breaking for him.

Just to make things even better, eventually the door to the back entry starts opening very, very slowly. Because of course it does. Emma has some kind of Spidey-sense for tears.

Katie gets up, opens the door just enough to let herself through, and crowds Emma away, closing the door again behind herself.

"Is Uncle Jon okay?" Emma asks. To her credit, she keeps her voice _way_ down, quieter than a whisper would be. She looks so worried. She and Jon have always been close.

"He's upset," Katie tells her, just as quietly. "And no, I'm not going to tell you why. It's private."

It's partly true; Jon as he is now wouldn't want her talking about it, and Jon at the age he _should_ be still wouldn't be wild about the topic of conversation. But it's also that she doesn't want any of her kids thinking that being gay is something to be ashamed of or to be upset about. She isn't in anything close to the right frame of mind to handle that kind of conversation, especially because Jon very much _is_ so upset, and that would be pretty complicated to explain.

"Go to bed, okay?" she says instead. "And get some sleep. For real, because I think I'm going to need your help over the next day or two, and I don't think I'm going to get much sleep myself tonight."

Emma's eyes widen. Katie doesn't usually admit to needing her help.

She _hates_ having to lean on Emma, because she's done far too much of that. She wants Emma to have a chance to be a kid. She wants Emma to be able to develop a sense of self that doesn't depend on managing the emotions of the people around her. Emma shouldn't _have_ to be a junior mother.

But Emma is good with people and she's very good with Jon. That makes sense, because they're very similar — with one important difference. When Emma is hurt, she goes to someone and _asks for help_.

Emma glances at the closed door. "You think he'd leave?" she asks. "But … he doesn't know Uncle Mark yet, does he?"

"No. Or how to get to their place. Or how to pay for the T now, or that pay phones aren't a thing anymore, or _anywhere to go_." They both know Jon hides his hurts and slips away to deal with them alone. She loves her brother but sometimes he drives her right up a tree. "Which is why I'll be sleeping down here tonight."

"I'll get you a blanket," Emma says, promptly sliding off on sock-clad feet to do just that. She can be pretty quiet when she puts her mind to it. She soon returns with a blanket and hands it over. "Want me to hang a bunch of cans from the doors so they make noise?"

Katie smiles. The idea is awfully tempting. "I think that'd be noisier to set up. Besides, your dad would just set them off when he gets home. Go on to bed, okay?"

Emma nods and hugs Katie tightly. "Love you."

Katie hugs her back just as tightly. "Love you, too."

When she slips back into the living room, she finds Jon has curled himself up tightly on the couch, putting his back to the room. He's still sniffling a bit, but — as she's been cowardly enough to hope — he seems to be pretty wiped out, teetering on the edge of sleep. She settles his blanket over him, and he turns his face a little further away from her but doesn't otherwise respond.

She grabs an old, familiar book and settles on the other couch, upright rather than lying down. She's had enough practice at sitting up with sick kids to know how to doze so movement will wake her up. Jon at his proper age probably could still elude her, but at this age, he hasn't had nearly as much practice.

The book falls open to a favorite passage. She pages back and forth for a while, comforting herself with scenes of good people overcoming mildly stressful challenges while supporting one another, until that doze does finally overtake her.

She wakes to a change, but it turns out to be Dan entering the room. He sits down next to her, clearly weary, clearly worried, and mouths, _Trouble?_

She nods. She emailed him earlier about Jon so he wouldn't be too surprised, so at least she doesn't have to try to explain that now. She'll fill him in on the rest later.

He gives her a sad smile. _Sorry_. He means for not having been here.

She shakes her head at that and kisses him. His company really came through for him, first when Annabeth died and he was suddenly raising an infant alone, and then again when Katie was discovering the particular hell of perinatal depression. They don't need him to work late all that often, but when they do, he absolutely will step up and she can't blame him.

She shoos him off to eat and sleep — it's almost midnight, and he'll have to head back in once he's gotten enough sleep to function. She's used to this cycle. He kisses her again, soft and sweet, and obeys.

She ends up dozing again, off and on through the night.

The water pipes are a bit loud, so Katie is finally woken when they start up, likely for Dan's quick morning shower. Jon startles awake, too. For a few moments he's confused, not recognizing the space, but then he notices her and remembers. He curls in on himself, looking lost.

"Do you want to take a shower?" Katie asks. "If you do, you might want to get in before the kids get up."

Jon just shrugs a little, aimless. She goes ahead and gets up. "Come on, you might as well." She picks up his bag. "You should have stuff to wear in here, but if anything's missing, let me know and I'll round something up."

He considers for a few seconds and then gets up, still silent and withdrawn. She guides him to the stairs and up them, all the way to the kids' bathroom. "You can use whatever soap or shampoo you find," she says, handing over the bag. Then she leans against the opposite wall to wait.

As he realizes what she's doing, he finally reacts, if still silently. He stiffens, annoyed now, and closes the door between them. Annoyance isn't great, but it's at least better than that lost distance.

Back when he first came home, Mom quietly set up a schedule to make sure he was never alone for longer than it took to use the bathroom or change clothes. They all kept it up for … weeks? A couple of months? It was smothering and invasive, and it was arguably necessary. He _hated_ it, even while he understood why they did it.

Katie hates to do it to him again now, but she's _responsible_ for him, and right now, she's scared for him, too.

He takes less than ten minutes, emerging in different sweats, as well as sneakers even more battered than the ones he arrived in yesterday. She leads the way back downstairs, dropping the bag off in the family room again before heading into the kitchen. Jon moves over to lean against the back wall, arms crossed and scowling, so she starts the coffee and toast.

Then she takes her phone and starts cancelling the few lessons she'd kept for today. Jon's partner, Tonya, will be taking him off for some kind of medical testing in the late morning, but Katie will need to be able to watch him the rest of the day, and if she's lucky she'll be able to get a nap while they're gone. She really didn't get enough sleep.

Dan wanders in, trying to get a last few items into his laptop bag. He fills his travel mug, grabs some toast, and does a double-take on seeing Jon. He looks a question at Katie and she just shakes her head a little. They kiss briefly and Dan heads out.

The kids race down the stairs to intercept him, but they know he can't stay long, so their goodbyes are brief. The kitchen is soon its usual morning chaos, particularly once Sarah starts feeding the cats. Jon's mood is casting a definite pall over the room, though. Then Katie happens to glance over in a particularly noisy moment to see him eyeing the door and makes an executive decision.

"Emma, what's your first class, and can you miss it?"

Emma stares at her for a few seconds, which is fair, because this never happens. "We just started," she says finally. "I can miss it."

That's not really a proper answer, but Katie decides that she doesn't need to know right now. "Okay. I'll take you in later. Go show Jon the internet."

Emma giggles.

"Keep it clean, okay?" In theory, she doesn't have an option, but Katie knows teenagers are smarter than most parental tools. Emma's not likely to get too far in the weeds, but it's still worth saying. "Stick to nice stuff."

"Oh. You're _serious_ ?" Emma considers this for several seconds and then grins hugely. She goes over to Jon and starts pulling him to the dining room; after a measuring glance at Katie, he goes along. "I am going to show you _so many_ cat videos." Emma adores Jon and will stick to him like a particularly affectionate burr, so that's one problem at least deferred.

Both Sarah and Mikey start protesting, of course. She takes them both over to the kitchen table and quietly explains Jon is having a bad day and she needs Emma to keep an eye on him. They're not happy, but they don't argue too hard. Jon's mood was starting to get to both of them.

She gets them both settled down with breakfast, but before she can do anything else, her phone chimes with a text. It's from Tonya. _Just checking in. Still planning to swing by around 10. We still on? Everything going okay so far?_

Maybe if she'd gotten just a little more sleep, she wouldn't have responded promptly with _hahaha fml._ She stares at the words on the screen, regretting having hit the "send" button quite so quickly, and follows that up with a _Sorry_ and then _Rough night_.

 _I can be there in abt 45 mins_ , Tonya responds. A couple of seconds later, she adds, _y/n?_

Katie really shouldn't accept. Jon is her brother, her responsibility. But if she does, she can get Emma to school without having to drag Jon along. The prospect of adult help is _really_ appealing. And Jon seemed comfortable with Tonya yesterday, so maybe he'd be happier with her for now anyway. In the end she sends _Yes, please_ and a heartfelt _Thank you_.

She throws together a couple of plates and takes them to the dining room. Emma carefully shifts the laptop aside enough to make room and earnestly starts explaining to Jon how they have to be careful not to get any food on the computer. Katie doesn't normally allow the kids to eat while browsing for just that reason, but desperate times.

Jon doesn't shift to start eating. He keeps his arms crossed, which could be because he's upset, or he's cold, or he's barely holding himself together, or some combination. He keeps his eyes on the screen, even though the muted loop of Dramatic Chipmunk can't really be holding his attention. It's an excuse not to look at her, and she tries not to take it personally.

She goes back to Sarah and Mikey, getting them to finish eating and then shepherding them through the rest of getting ready for school. She walks them to the bus stop, but when they arrive, Eva Katsopoulis takes one look at her and offers to chaperone today while they wait for the bus. The parents on the street usually take turns, and Katie honestly doesn't remember whose turn it is today. She'll sort it out later. She thanks Eva and heads back.

When she gets to the house, Emma seems to have moved on to Tumblr, if the multiple moving pictures aligned in grids on her screen are any indication. The site just gives Katie a headache. Emma does seem to have gotten Jon to eat a little, which is impressive, since he tends to lose his appetite when he's upset. He hasn't eaten _much_ , though, so Katie leaves them to it a little longer as she heads to the kitchen.

Apparently at some point she made an extra pot of coffee, probably because she usually has to when Jon's around. Well, that's fine. More for her. She pours herself another cup and starts tackling putting away the things that really can't wait for later.

One big reason for keeping the family laptop in the dining room most of the time is that it makes monitoring easier. It's even more so now, with Emma explaining everything to Jon. Katie isn't paying particular attention to the words at first, but then she's pulled up short as she's scraping off plates.

She goes to the doorway. "I didn't really hear what I thought I heard, did I?" she says, warning clear in her tone. She wants to believe she actually didn't, because she thought better of Emma.

"I wasn't using it in a bad way!" Emma says quickly. "I was just saying how Tony and Steve adopt Peter together because they're totally gay for each other. It just means they're in love. It's not _bad_."

Jon looks like he's got a mouthful of spoiled milk. Katie counts to ten. How could she have forgotten Emma's "superfamily" obsession? "I didn't say you meant it in a bad way," she finally says, carefully. The _flippancy_ of the phrase bothers Katie, but that's too complicated a conversation for right now. "But that's not your word to use like that."

"What if I'm gay?" Emma challenges, because she's a teenager. Testing her parents is entirely age-appropriate, even if she already knows the answers.

Jon is very, very still.

But the answer is easy. "If you are, then I guess it is your word," Katie says. So far Emma's sexuality seems to be _ask again later_. Katie will support her no matter what the answer turns out to be, and she's happy to reinforce that message. "But that doesn't excuse you from paying attention to how the words you use affect other people."

Emma looks over at Jon then. "Oh," she says, abashed. "Sorry for using your word, Uncle Jon. I should have asked."

Jon starts to shake his head, instinctive denial, and his expression starts to crumple before he catches both and hides them. Katie hates that he's only gotten better at that over the years and, oh. He didn't know Emma knows.

"When Uncle Jon and I were kids," Katie says, hoping Emma will pick up on the part where she's basically talking about Jon as he is right now, "we thought it _was_ a bad thing. We thought it was something to hide and be ashamed of. We didn't know any better."

"Oh." Emma considers that. "I'm glad I live now. But it's really not bad, Uncle Jon. It's just how you are. And my friend Kai has two moms, and they're awesome."

Katie isn't sure she'd go so far as _awesome_ , but they are nice enough. Jon can only be pushed so far before he shuts down, though, and Katie suspects he's at that point, if not well past it. "Go on and get ready for school, Em," she says.

Emma closes the laptop and starts to head upstairs but veers when the doorbell rings. Katie catches her and steers her to the stairs again. "I've got it. Go."

She opens the door and lets Tonya in, thanking her again for coming over. She can't really explain everything with Jon just around the corner, so she just leads Tonya to the dining room.

Tonya's eyebrows climb when she sees Jon, on whom _sullen_ is pretty rare. Jon looks confused for a second, and Katie realizes that _this_ Jon has only seen Tonya in a suit, so the casual clothes are probably jarring, like seeing a teacher at the grocery store. But he recognizes her pretty quickly and then puts together that she's early. He glares at Katie for a second and then looks away, pulling himself even tighter.

"Coffee?" Katie suggests weakly to Tonya.

"Thanks," Tonya says, her tone wary. The two of them head into the kitchen. It's close enough that they'll probably notice if Jon tries to leave, and Tonya's a runner, so she could catch him if he tried.

Katie pours a cup and adds cream and sugar when asked if she has them. Tonya accepts the cup and leans back against the counter, so Katie leans back against the sink and tries to figure out what to say.

"You knew." Jon stands in the doorway, so tense, looking at Tonya. "Didn't you."

Tonya smiles strangely at that and takes a few seconds to respond. "That is a cunningly posed question, _Detective_ ," she says finally. "So full of accusation, but leaving the person you're questioning to fill in your meaning. You could probably get plenty of details you wouldn't even know to ask about that way, if you're facing a guilty enough conscience. Unfortunately, at the moment you're not. You're going to have to be a lot more specific than that."

Jon clearly didn't expect her to react so calmly. He has to search for words. "About me," he says. "That I'm … that I …" But he can't bring himself to say it.

"Well, this is a fun standoff," Tonya says finally. "I'm not going to fill in the end of that statement, because I could be wrong about what you're talking about and I'm not interested in what that could lead to. But if I'm right about it and we have to wait for you to say it, we'll still be standing here when you change back to your legal age."

That's unkind. Sure, Jon's never _liked_ talking about this stuff, but he usually can if he has to. Although … considering how hard it was for him to tell _Mark_ , who _already knew_ ....

"He means you already know he's gay," Katie says quickly. She promised him she wouldn't tell anyone, back when they were kids, but Tonya already knows, so this can't count.

Tonya closes her eyes for a few seconds, then looks up at the ceiling. "Let the record show that I _didn't actually ask_ ," she mutters.

Jon's confused now. "So — you didn't —?"

"Oh, I knew," Tonya says. "I was at your wedding, it was hard to miss."

"But — but you didn't _say_ —"

"It didn't come up. Besides, I didn't know if _you_ knew yet."

Jon gapes at her a little. Katie doesn't know which of Tonya's statements is giving him the most trouble, but he finally settles on, "I'm seventeen."

Tonya is unruffled. "And people don't all figure things out at the same age."

"And you know because …" Jon swallows. "Because I told you?"

Katie winces. Tonya takes a deep breath but then just says, "No."

"Someone else?" Jon guesses, reluctant, with a brief glance at Katie. _Hey_. No one who didn't already know ever heard it from her.

Tonya considers her coffee for several long seconds. "When I joined our unit," she says finally, "it was the first thing I heard about you, after your name."

Jon leans into the doorframe, as if he needs the support. "They _know_? The — the department?" He looks sick.

Katie silently protests again that this isn't fair. Jon already went through this, too.

Then Jon frowns in confusion. "But how … _how_ ? You said I'm still — but if they _know_ —"

"What, you think you would've been fired? Firing someone for their orientation hasn't been legal in this state since …"

"'89," Katie supplies promptly when Tonya pauses to remember the date. Because she had worried about that, too, with Granddad pushing Jon so hard, and she was so relieved when the measure passed. Back home took another couple of years to catch up.

Tonya nods once. "Of course, that just means they couldn't fire you for it openly, if they didn't want a court battle they would've lost. They could've tried to find another reason, or tried to make you want to leave yourself. I don't know what anyone might have tried back then. I just know you were still around when I showed up."

Katie has _no idea_ why Tonya is getting into this stuff. Yeah, it's all true, but Jon's already upset. He doesn't need to hear about things like this — especially because he's _just a kid_ right now. Jon's boss apparently stood up for him to some extent, but other cops absolutely _did_ try to make him want to quit. He tried not to let her know about that, but even he couldn't hide everything.

Jon just nods a little, as if the depressing extra information actually does help. "But you — you don't —" As before, Tonya waits him out rather than finishing his sentence or assuming his meaning, and he finally manages to say, "It doesn't bother you?"

She shrugs. "As long as everyone involved is consenting and you're not hitting on me, I sincerely don't care."

Jon is startled by that suggestion. Then he looks sad in an entirely different way, for Tonya, for just a moment. Katie gets it — she has it bad enough as a sports professional.

But Tonya isn't here to have her challenges analyzed and the moment passes. Jon studies both of them for several seconds and then settles on Katie. "If they know …"

"Yeah," Katie says gently. She's not going to make him find the words. "Everyone back home knows, too."

He sags against the doorframe, devastated. After just a few seconds, though, he's pushing it all down, burying his reaction, hiding everything, even though there's no _need_ for that, at all, not with them. He takes a deep breath and looks up at Katie again, mouth tightening. "So that's why I'm under constant surveillance."

"It's not —" Katie starts to protest, but it honestly is. "I just want to be sure you're safe, okay?"

"What do you think I'll even _do_ ?" he demands. He's never been very good at being angry, at least on his own behalf, but he's fully there now. "You didn't have to call in _reinforcements_ . I'm not going to _do_ anything."

"I didn't say you were!" Katie says. "It's not about that! It's just — damn it, Jon, you get so distracted and you _hide_. I can't lose track of you, not again —"

" _It was an accident!_ " He _never_ yells at her, but he's yelling now. "You _know_ it was —"

"I know!" and now she's yelling, too. "I didn't —"

"Stop, stop, _stop, time out_ ," and that's _Tonya_ yelling now, projecting to drown out both of them. "Time. Out." She eyes them both to make sure they're obeying. Then she fixes Jon with a firm look. "Jonathan. Is this about something you have reason to think I know?"

Katie's not sure why Tonya has jumped to the thin-ice version of his name, but Jon doesn't treat it as a warning anyway. He just considers for a moment and then says, "No, ma'am."

"Okay then. I'm going to go enjoy the morning … clouds or something. Let me know when you've worked this out." Jon swiftly steps forward out of the doorway to get out of her way as she heads for the front door.

Katie just stares for a moment, confused, but then she pulls herself together enough to call out, "Emma, you too." There's a chance she hasn't been in earshot for the entire time, but there's zero chance of that since the shouting started.

"Oh, look, you must be Emma, then," Tonya's voice announces. "Come give me a tour or something." The front door soon opens and then closes again.

"What was that?" Katie asks, still bewildered.

"She doesn't want me to feel like she's been prying," Jon says, defensive, but now on Tonya's behalf rather than his own. "Later."

Oh. Katie hasn't even considered that, but of course Tonya didn't know Jon at this age, and of course Jon now can't know what he has and hasn't chosen to share. They've been so close for so long, she can't imagine there's much Tonya doesn't yet know, but Jon does tend to keep the different parts of his life pretty separated.

And, yeah, this is probably something he wouldn't have brought up.

"It's not about not trusting you," she tells Jon. "It's that when you're upset, you hide and you're distracted. That's dangerous anyway —"

"I'm not a little kid," he snaps.

"You almost _died_ ," she snaps back, and he flinches, and _damn_ it. She draws a shaky breath. "Sorry. But you _did_ . I _know_ it was an accident. I never thought it wasn't. But you were too distracted to take it seriously, and no one knew anything was wrong, and if —"

She has to stop and breathe again.

"You hide, Jonny. You disappeared on us so well that we didn't even _notice_ . Mom started this whole thing because she realized we don't know when you need help, because you won't let us. And I know it's different with me, and I know _this_ is different. But you don't even know what to be careful of out there. You don't know the neighborhood, or anywhere but here to go. You — you probably don't know about electric cars yet. Even _crossing the street_ is different now. And if you got hurt just because I wasn't paying enough attention —"

She turns away because she's starting to cry now, and that won't help. The men in their family _cannot cope_ with any of the women crying and fall all over themselves trying to fix the problem. Jon is usually better about it, but that's mostly because Katie spent years and years not standing for it.

Sure enough, Jon says, "I'm sorry," small and miserable. Katie flaps a hand to get him to stop, and he actually does, because even at this age he was always good about reacting to signals. She manages to get herself back under control and turns to find that he's pulled back against the opposite wall, curled in on himself, lost and hurting without anger to hold him up.

"I know you hate being watched all the time," Katie says. "I'm sorry. I'm scared and I panicked. Tonya offered to come over a little early and I accepted because I thought you might be more comfortable with her than me right now. It was never about — about ganging up on you or anything, I promise."

His shoulders tighten inward a little and he nods slightly, accepting the explanation.

She starts to cross the room towards him, but he tries to draw away before finding he's already up against the wall. She stops, stung. "Do you want to go let Tonya know we're done spilling all your secrets?"

He mutters, "Yes, ma'am," which makes them both wince. He ducks his head and goes to the front door.


	11. A Walk in the Park

Detective Smith looks relieved when she sees Jonathan step out onto the front stoop, probably because Emma's talking her ears off. Emma turns to check what she's looking at and breaks off what she's saying to come right up to Jonathan and inspect him closely.

Whatever she sees makes her give him a crushing hug. "I love you so, so much, Uncle Jon," she says. "You have to be okay."

It's a nicer way of saying the same things Katie is saying, but they're still the same things. He knows they both mean well but he wishes they would just give him some space. He pats Emma awkwardly.

"Come finish getting ready, Em," Katie says from behind him. Emma squeezes even harder before finally letting him go. He escapes down into the yard as she heads in.

"I take it you're all done," the detective says as he approaches her. "And if I'm not mistaken, that's the expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else. Do you want to just head out early and find something to kill some time with?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, relieved. He really shouldn't impose, but he's afraid of what he might start saying to Katie if he stays here right now.

"No metal in any of your clothes, right?" she checks.

Jonathan shakes his head. There wouldn't be any in sweats — well, as far as he knows, and she would probably know if they've decided to start weaving them out of some sort of futuristic metal or something. "Well, except my shoes, maybe?" The … little holes the laces go through, whatever those are called, those are probably metal.

She looks down at his feet and kind of laughs. "You and shoes, honestly. One of these days I'm going to — never mind. I'll finish that thought later. You'll probably have to take the shoes off anyway. Anything else you need to get from inside first? Okay, let me just let your sister know and we'll take off."

And then she just  _ heads inside _ without dragging him along. Apparently  _ she's _ not worried he'll manage to impale himself on the rose bushes or anything in the whole two minutes she spends inside.

She emerges again and they get into the car that's parked behind Katie's minivan. This must be the detective's personal car, a smaller silver sedan. Most of what he's used to on a dashboard is missing, and the middle of it is filled with a screen that lights up as she starts the car. The radio starts playing, but the volume is low enough to ignore. There are stickers on the visors warning that the airbags are dangerous, which is strange — if they're so dangerous, why are they even there? Dad mentions airbags occasionally because of his job, so Jonathan knows there's some kind of fight about them, but he doesn't really know the details.

"So I have a couple of suggestions," the detective says as they start driving. "I'm guessing you aren't actually interested in just driving around for a couple of hours. There's a batting cage you go to sometimes, if you're in the mood to hit things for a while. Or we could just walk around one of the parks. Thoughts?"

Hitting things does sound a little appealing, but she said  _ batting cage _ , not just going to a local field, so that would probably cost money. It doesn't sound appealing enough to overcome that. "Walking's good," he says.

"Got it." She gets them onto the busy road they used yesterday before speaking again. "So, that was an … exciting discussion."

It's an invitation to talk about it without actually pushing him, which would be nice except for how it brings everything right back up again. Jonathan groans, covers his face with his hands, and slides down in his seat. His parents would both tell him he should be ashamed of his behavior, but they don't need to. He's been  _ awful _ . He knew it at the time and he couldn't  _ stop _ .

"Problem?" the detective asks, sounding kind of tense.

Right. She's driving and he's being distracting. He drops his hands so he can talk properly. "Sorry. It's just — I made her  _ cry _ . She's my  _ sister _ , I shouldn't — how could I —"

"Did you mean to make her cry?"

"No! But —"

"Okay. You were both pretty upset back there. You'll apologize later. You both need some space right now. You can't do anything about it right this second, so try to set it aside for now, okay?"

He has no idea why she's going so easy on him. She can't know how  _ horrible _ he's been all day. He  _ knew _ Katie was just worried about him. But being watched every second like that makes him feel so trapped and exposed and he hates it and she  _ knows _ that.

Maybe he should have asked for that batting cage.

It feels strange to wish the detective would chew him out, but clearly  _ someone _ needs to.

She doesn't. She just waits for a minute or two and then asks, "So do you want me to leave you alone for a while so you can think, or do you want me to talk about something to distract you?"

He's exposed even here, with her. He tries not to resent her, too. "I … I need to think, please."

She's surprised, which is fair. He doesn't  _ want _ to think. But his thoughts are all jumbled up, and he needs to sort at least some of them out if he doesn't want to ruin everything with everyone who matters to him.

His fingers are already worrying at the cuffs of his sweatshirt. He starts to feel bad about that automatically, but … well, this sweatshirt isn't new, and he doesn't have to keep it in good shape to pass on to Jamie later. It's apparently technically his anyway, or at least his older self's, and Jonathan is starting to feel a petty satisfaction at the idea of messing up that guy's stuff.

Because his older self is really starting to sound kind of awful.

Jonathan probably can't blame him for never figuring out how to fix what he is, because maybe there isn't a way, but he's still resentful because he managed to fool himself into thinking there was. And why did older-him ever decide to join the police in the first place? Just to prove he could? Jonathan already knows people like him aren't welcome on the job — no one's ever really said anything outright because people don't talk about it openly, but Granddad and his friends have said enough that it's pretty clear. The detective has suggested the same thing, though she was a lot nicer about it.

She ought to know, too. Granddad and his friends don't talk directly about people like Jonathan, but they do talk about "lady cops". Which is weird because Granddad has two daughters and three granddaughters, and Mom probably could've been an amazing cop if she'd wanted to. Jonathan certainly wouldn't want to cross her.

But back in her day, women mostly couldn't join. And Granddad has kind of been toning it down lately, as Katie keeps winning sports awards and pick-up matches against older boys.

Maybe … maybe his older self just took the test to see  _ if _ he could and then didn't know how to back out later. Because … Granddad would be  _ so proud _ . He's been hinting pretty strongly that he would really like one of his grandsons to follow in his footsteps. Jonathan's never really had anything for people to be proud of him for, and yeah, he probably wouldn't be strong enough to resist the appeal of that. That would explain why Boston, too.

That's no excuse for being a bad partner, though, taking the easy jobs and not being any good at training and being so bad at self-control that the detective is surprised and distracted when he tries to exercise any. Did his older self give up on deserving a partner the way he gave up on his own name, or is he just kind of useless in general? Is he so used to being useless that he's stopped even noticing?

The detective said something else odd, too, about already knowing about him.  _ I was at your wedding, it was hard to miss _ . People like him don't  _ get _ weddings. That's part of why this is all so hard, because he can't stand the idea of being alone forever. He wants someone to come home to, someone who cares if —

So does that mean his older self tried to marry someone anyway?

The only way her statements make any sense together is if he did but then called it off  _ at the wedding _ . That's  _ horrible _ . How can he have turned into the kind of person who would do that? The only thing worse would be actually going through with it knowing it was a lie, but he should never have gotten anywhere close in the first place.

He doesn't want to be that person.

Older-him was wearing a ring, too, which makes no sense. Unless maybe it's a reminder to himself? Or maybe it's meant to fool other people. It's not as if he'd need it to warn women away — it's just as well he's never cared about girls that way, because they've certainly never noticed him — but a middle-aged guy who still wasn't married would stand out.

But wearing a ring to hide that feels wrong. Changing his accent is one thing, but wearing a prop — especially that one — seems … crass. Inappropriate. He wants to think he wouldn't do that … but his opinion about it apparently doesn't matter at all.

"You said I'm real." He didn't mean to say anything, and he shouldn't have sounded so accusing, but it's too late now.

The detective leaves off faintly humming along to something on the radio and gives him a questioning look. "Yeah?" 

"But that's not —" Why can't he manage to be civil? He tries again. "I'm not, though."

She reaches over and pokes him lightly in the upper arm. "Huh. Seem real enough to me. What am I missing?"

"You said I'll change back in a few days. Less now. This, who  _ I _ am right now, you keep saying it'll wear off. If this has happened to plenty of people before and you talk about it that way, then people come back pretty much the way they were before, right? Like, he — older-me has a beard, and I don't, so even if I shave, that wouldn't change whether he has one later, right? So I can't actually change anything. Even if I … I don't know, chopped my hand off or something, it probably wouldn't make any difference, would it?"

The detective coughs at the suggestion. "Well. Apparently you went through a morbid phase. That is … interesting. Obviously that's not an experiment anyone has tried. And we're not going to, either," she adds, warning.

Great. Now she's acting like Katie. "It was just an  _ example _ ."

"Just making sure we're clear. I don't actually know the answer, but you make interesting points. If you want to advance the cause of science, we can try getting you a  _ haircut _ or something and seeing if your hair ends up any different later — though you're right that shaving probably already tests that."

She's missing the point. He's not a scientist, obviously. She doesn't have to mock him to remind him of that. He's just pointing out how what she's said fits together. "If I can't change anything, then I'm not actually real. Nothing that happens now really matters, because I'll just change back after." Into some guy he can't stand the thought of being. She said before that she didn't want to treat him as an inconvenient placeholder, but that can't be worth everything she and Katie are doing.

The detective starts to answer but then changes her mind. "Give me a minute on that. I want to get this right."

She drives for a few more blocks and then makes a right turn onto a smaller street. There's an apartment building of about twelve stories on the right and a long, shallow parking lot on the left. She parks in that lot. On the other side of the lot is some kind of waterway, part of the weird, twisty park system that winds through this side of Boston.

They get out and start walking along the path that squeezes between the lot and the waterway. The detective sets a good pace, actually  _ walking _ rather than the dull stroll most people stick to. Real movement is a relief.

They walk in silence until the parking lot finally ends and the park widens a bit on either side, the path moving away from the water slightly. Then the detective slows a little to make talking easier, but she takes a few more seconds before she speaks. "If you make your sister cry, does it matter?"

"What?  _ Yes _ ." Of course it does.

"How can it if you're not real? Why should she care what some not-real person says?"

"Because … the things I  _ said _ —"

"How can  _ those _ be real if you're not?"

She's twisting things around. "That stuff still happened. I'm not saying — I was talking about real stuff —"

"Okay. Then why would you care if she cries, if you're not real?"

_ "She's _ real. All of you are. I have to care because — because how you feel matters."

"And how you feel doesn't?" she says sharply.

Not her too. "That's not — it's not the  _ same _ . When 'all this wears off', you'll have  _ him _ back. He's not going to care about how some — some rude little  _ brat _ who got stuck in his life for a few days felt about things. I can't — I can't  _ fix _ anything, all I can do is  _ break _ things, and I don't —"

He swallows the words that want to follow because he is  _ not _ going to cry.

He can't look at her, but he hears the detective sigh and then say, very quietly, "Dammit, Jack." 

They walk on for another couple of minutes, silence between them, but at least it feels like she's thinking about things and not waiting for something from him. There's a road crossing up ahead, but she heads left, along an old stone bridge and then back up the other side of the water. There's actually a baseball field off to the right now, empty for the moment.

_ Yes, fine, I get it, I should've just said batting cage. I don't need the hint. _ He prays for guidance and all he gets is  _ this _ kind of thing? Maybe older-him has an excuse for being awful.

"I don't always know how to follow your train of thought," the detective says finally. It's probably the nicest way anyone's ever told him that he makes no sense. "I'm not entirely sure where this not-real thing is coming from. I'm just going to say a few things and hope I come close.

"First, if this goes for you the way it has for pretty much everyone else, you'll remember it. Have you ever been drunk?"

"I'm only seventeen!" Jonathan protests. His parents would  _ kill _ him.

"That's not actually an answer. And yet, for you it is, fine. The people who have been through this mostly describe what they remember as being a little vague and confused but mostly coherent. Several have said it's like remembering what they did when they were drunk, or at least tipsy. You're in an — you  _ are _ an altered state. You'll mostly remember the things you did and said. The way you felt. That basically means  _ you're _ real, as much as I am."

Well. That's awkward. Jonathan is equally torn between embarrassment for himself and a vicious sort of satisfaction that older-him will be at  _ least _ as embarrassed later.

"Second, we don't actually know yet if this  _ will _ go for you the way it has for everyone else. For all we know, alleged  _ magic _ has weird side effects when applied to … hmm … slightly hyper, multilingual ... hobbyist photographers … with shoes that  _ predate the millennium _ . Maybe it turns permanent and you won't change back. We can't know until it happens — or doesn't happen. So, again, functionally speaking, you're real."

Jonathan has been trying not to think what it will feel like when he changes "back". Whether he'll just … wink out, or whether he'll know he's being unmade. The detective never actually gave a specific timeframe, but he took her mentions of  _ a few days _ literally. He's dismayed at the thought that this could happen before he's ready … or he might have to keep bracing himself for it over and over, possibly forever.

"Third, let's say this so-called magic is secretly a cover for some kind of science-fiction thing. The real Detective Jonathan 'Jack' Davis, age 46, is being studied in some suspended animation pod somewhere or something, and you're just a short-lived clone replacement. Take  _ not real _ seriously. What would you want us all to do? How we treat you actually says a lot about us. It's selfish of me, but I want to think I'm humane enough to treat someone who acts like they have feelings  _ like they matter _ ." She smiles a little. "Maybe we're in some crappy SyFy movie, or  _ Hallmark _ , and our being nice to you is what keeps you from turning into an  _ evil _ clone, and that's how we all save the day. I don't know, okay? I studied forensics, not philosophy. But as far as I'm concerned, you're real, and I'm going to keep acting like you matter."

And as far as he's concerned, he's  _ not _ , not really. But that doesn't really change how he has to behave, and he did try to convince the detective that she doesn't have to work so hard to be nice to him. He can't  _ make _ her be meaner or anything. It sounds weird to even put it that way, because he doesn't actually want her to be mean. He just hates that he's imposing on her so much. On everyone, really.

"Did I come anywhere close with any of that?" the detective asks. They skirted along a different busy-four-lane-road and are back at the parking lot again, but she's staying on the path rather than heading for the car. "I can try to come up with something else if none of those approaches worked for you."

Which means he should drop it. That's fine. She can't fix this anyway. "Sorry I made you come over early. And that you have to walk all over now." Why can't he manage to relax by doing something most people actually think is relaxing?

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I couldn't hack it," she says. "I run marathons, so this is nothing." She grins suddenly. "You know one of the great things about working with you? You actually  _ like _ walking. There's a lot of desk time in this job, and a lot of driving, and a lot of middle-aged guys with bad knees or bad backs or just bad attitudes. You actually keep up with me. And I think you're the first partner I've had who actually prefers stairs to elevators."

Huh. Something actually positive about his older self. It's not much — at all — but he might as well take it.

"Then again, you're just asking for bad knees yourself, considering you don't seem to own a single decent pair of casual shoes." She's teasing him. Somewhat.

He looks down at his feet. These shoes have obviously seen better days, but they're not actually falling apart. She said  _ predate the millennium _ , which would've been fourteen years ago, right? "Are these really older than  _ Emma _ ?"

"I can't  _ prove _ it, but they look suspiciously familiar, yes. I should have quizzed you a little harder when you said you'd finally replaced them.  _ And _ the other pair. I know how you are about actually throwing anything away."

He pays attention to how the shoes feel over the next few steps. They just feel like shoes. "I kept them together that long? Neat." He usually just outgrows shoes, obviously, so he's never had a chance to see how long he could go before.

The detective mock-growls. "They cannot  _ possibly _ have any support left. Shoes wear out!"

It's weird for someone to care so much about  _ shoes _ . They're just something to keep your feet warm or dry for a while, or safe from rough ground, or just from having to walk around in socks all the time. Well, people do always say women are obsessed with shoes, but they usually mean pretty ones. Or maybe heels or something, he's not sure. He's never understood what that's all about, but this doesn't sound like whatever that is anyway. It sounds like it's about what shoes are made of or something. He doesn't know anything about that, either, but he wouldn't mind listening. "They do?" he asks, hoping she'll want to explain.

He keeps forgetting that she  _ knows _ him, though. She gives him a look that says she knows exactly what he's trying to do.

But then she goes ahead and starts lecturing him about shoe design anyway. They cross the little side street rather than taking the stone bridge this time, which leads them to what she pauses to note is Jamaica Pond. Listening to her and reacting or asking questions is  _ so _ much easier than trying to talk about himself or things he cares about. She seems to understand that, and when she can't find anything more to say about shoes, she moves on to telling him stories about various runs she's signed up for.

Of course she gets it. She offered earlier to talk about something to distract him. He wonders just how often she has to do that for him.

They circle the pond a couple of times and follow a few other winding paths as she talks. She keeps a close eye on the time, and eventually they have to head back to her car and start driving further into the city again.


	12. Imaging

Boston is old and cramped and all jumbled up. The street they end up on looks like the usual mix of uses and styles, a few newer office-looking buildings in sand-colored brick and glass on one side and an older red-brick development on the other. Detective Smith drives more slowly and finds a free meter, smoothly guiding the car into the slot. She doesn't even seem to notice how good she is at it.

Jonathan is going to have to figure out how to get his license soon — except, no, he isn't. That's one weight off his mind.

Once she's fed the meter, they head about a block back the way they came, to one of the newer looking buildings. There's a plaque with the name of the place to one side of the doors, but it's too long to read without stopping — something like the Esteemed Somebody Q. Something, Junior, Esquire, Diagnostic Center for Centralized Diagnostics and Imaginary Imaging. He only catches a couple of the actual words but he's seen the format before.

The doors are automated, in two sets to act as a sort of windbreak. They pass through both and a wave of hospital-smell smacks Jonathan in the face.

He rubs at his nose irritably. Maybe if he can just try not to breathe too deeply, he'll eventually stop noticing it.

"You okay?"

Oh. He didn't even mean to stop walking. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

He tries to start walking again, but the detective puts out a hand to make him wait. She doesn't look too surprised that he stopped in the first place. "Look, are you sure you're okay to do this?"

"Yes …?" He doesn't mean to make it a question, but he doesn't understand hers. "You said this won't hurt, right?"

"Right." She looks worried about something. "I just want to make sure you remember that you don't  _ have _ to do this if you don't want to."

Her boss wants this done and it won't hurt and he doesn't really want to be standing so  _ still _ . "Yes, ma'am, I remember. Can we just —" What's a nice way of saying  _ get this over with so we can leave _ ?

"Yeah." But she keeps an eye on him as they go to some kind of reception desk, which  _ isn't helping _ . He's not scared or anything. He just wants to finish so they can go somewhere that doesn't smell so weird. She doesn't have to look so concerned. Why won't anyone just let him be invisible anymore?

They're directed to a set of elevators, even though they only have to go up one floor. At least that makes the detective look unimpressed instead of just worried. Jonathan has to be careful not to make the elevator shake with his tendency to bounce a little with restlessness, so he's kind of glad it's only one floor, but he really would have preferred the stairs, too.

The office they're sent to has a small waiting area of about ten chairs and its own reception desk, where the woman there hands the detective a clipboard with yet more paperwork. But the detective doesn't hand it over to Jonathan, and she doesn't even make him sit down. She sits down herself and just fills out a bunch of it, asking him occasional questions. He wanders around the small room, basically just pacing, but she doesn't even give him a single irritated glance.

Once she finishes and hands in the paperwork, the woman at the desk picks up the handset of her phone and speaks to someone briefly. About a minute later, an older man in a lab coat comes out a second door and asks them to follow him.

He takes them to an office and sits behind a desk, gesturing for them to sit in front. The detective catches Jonathan's eye, though, and shakes her head a bit. "You're going to need him to keep still for a while, right?" she asks the doctor. At his confirmation, she says, "Let him work off some energy now, then, or he'll never make it."

Jonathan's not sure he will anyway, but he's grateful that she knows sitting down now will only make that harder. He stands to the side so she can keep an eye on him. Long experience with school assemblies has taught him how to keep shifting his weight so that it mostly looks like he's standing still but he can still feel like he's moving at least a little.

The doctor frowns and consults a folder. "I thought this was the de-aging study."

"It is," the detective says.

For some reason that makes the doctor eye Jonathan for a few seconds with an odd kind of calculation in his expression. Then he shrugs off the question with a faked casualness and starts asking basic questions — when, where, how old Jonathan should be, all that stuff.

At least these sweatpants have pockets, but they're all wrong. With a jacket and trousers he can jam his hands in his pockets and it looks casual. Sweatpant pockets don't work for that.

After the third basic question, the detective cuts the doctor off. "Can we just cover questions you  _ need _ answers to beforehand and get this going? You know how hard it is to get teenage boys to agree to any of this medical stuff."

The weird thing is that she doesn't try to sell that last part at  _ all _ , and she even glances briefly at Jonathan to let him know she's knows it's baloney — but the doctor doesn't notice. He just laughs. "I do, I do. All right, we'll fill in details later. Come with me."

They stand and Jonathan backs up a bit so the doctor can get past him. The doctor leads them back out to the hallway and several doors down to a different room, where he hands them off to a different man and then leaves.

The new guy is in blue scrubs. He smiles and welcomes them, introducing himself as Rohit and seeming a lot warmer than anyone else here has so far. He's younger than the doctor, maybe in his late twenties or something, and Jonathan abruptly realizes that maybe he shouldn't notice anything else about the guy because his day actually could get a  _ lot _ worse.

He knows it's rude to refuse to look at someone at all, but he doesn't dare.

The metal question is asked again, and he has to take off his shoes and store them in a little locker in a side room. Then they all go to a room with a doughnut shaped contraption that has a bed-looking thing sticking out of the middle.

The guy — it feels rude to think of him as just  _ Rohit _ , but Jonathan doesn't know what title or last name to use — tells him to lie down, but Jonathan hesitates. "Detective Smith? You'll … you'll stay?"

He's not scared of this, not really, but she's the only familiar thing and he needs  _ something _ .

"I can't stay in the room," she says. "But there's a control room right there, see?" She guides his attention to a sort of booth overlooking the room. "I can be there, with Rohit, okay? I mean, I can be in there or we can just call this off, either way."

The last sounds like it's directed to Rohit, who sounds a little guarded as he says, "In that case, please, be my guest."

Jonathan goes ahead and lies down, which unfortunately reminds him that he landed pretty hard on his shoulder yesterday. He hasn't really noticed it while walking around, but lying down puts pressure on it. It feels pretty bruised up. He can't really say anything, though, because the way she acted about that headache yesterday, the detective will probably think he was trying to hide a broken bone or something drastic like that, when he honestly just hasn't been noticing until now. It really is just a bruise. It's not that bad.

Rohit places headphones over Jonathan's ears. Then he sets an odd contraption — something that looks like an angled mirror on a plastic arch — so that it rests just over Jonathan's face, which startles him for a second. But it's just sitting there and isn't really trapping him or anything, so he makes himself calm down. He wishes he could rub at his nose one last time, but he doesn't want to risk knocking anything out of place.

After about a minute, Rohit starts talking to him through the headphones, advising him that the bed will move and then checking he can see images from outside the machine in the mirror once the head of the bed has slid inside the doughnut. Apparently the way this works is that they'll have him look at things in the mirror or listen to things over the headphones and then see what his brain does about those things. Somehow.

Rohit warns him that he'll need to keep still. He suggests trying to relax, which is almost funny.

The detective warned him the machine would be loud. She didn't say it would sound like a carnival ride falling apart mid-cycle or someone banging on a door. Rohit reminds him to keep still and then adds, "And I've been asked to tell you it's supposed to sound like that."

So the detective really is in there with him. That actually does help.

The things they're having him do — read this word, look at this image, read this other word — are ridiculously boring. He wonders if they even know what they're looking for.

Maybe they don't.

They might have older-him do this later and compare them, but Jonathan doesn't really see what they'd get from that, either. Maybe some general idea of how teenage brains work differently from middle-age ones?

Or they might be able to tell if the brains of people like him are different from the brains of normal people.

So that argument this morning might have been a good thing after all. Without it, he wouldn't know that the entire  _ world _ apparently knows what he is, which means he doesn't have to worry anymore that he'll let the secret slip. He would have been freaking out right about now. He doesn't know what this machine can  _ see _ , what secrets it can broadcast to anyone who looks.

"Try to remain still, please," Rohit says between instructions.

What  _ can _ it see? He should have asked before. The detective said it was like an X-ray, but it's looking at his brain, and they're having him think about  _ specific things _ . It … it can't really read thoughts, right? He tries thinking  _ can you hear me? _ , and then tries thinking something really rude, but the parade of random words and images and instructions continues steadily.

So maybe it doesn't read thoughts, or else they're really good at not reacting. But he doesn't know what they've come up with in thirty years. Maybe they can see things that might as well be thoughts, like what he is or that he's not very smart or that he's not good at  _ anything _ .

"Try to keep still," he hears again, even though he already  _ is _ .

Maybe this whole thing, this whole seeing-thirty-years-in-the-future thing, is just to show him how useless he is. Maybe God wants him to understand that he's hopeless, that he'll just end up as some jerk who makes his sister cry and weighs down a good cop and leaves some poor woman at the altar, and that's why He hasn't bothered to respond, and showing him this is meant to get him to stop whining all the time for  _ help _ and  _ guidance _ because why waste any of that on him?

"I really need you to keep still." If they can see his brain, can't they see he's  _ trying _ ?

He's not actually seeing thirty years in the future, though, because he's not real. He won't exist in a couple of days. So maybe this is all just to wake his terrible older self up, let him see how awful he is — and he  _ is _ but Jonathan  _ can't do anything to fix it _ —

"You need to keep still," and they keep saying that but he  _ can't breathe _ .

He's trying not to move but there's no air. He needs air. Don't they know that? Did he mess up and take too long? Why isn't there any  _ air _ ?

Something shakes him. It feels like he's sliding away. He clutches at the edge of the bed even though he's not supposed to move. But he is moving even though he's trying to keep still. Oh. The bed's moving. Is it supposed to? But he still can't breathe.

"Don't sit up yet," the detective says. She's not supposed to be in here. Isn't it dangerous? Maybe not, he's not in the machine anymore. Her voice is calm and steady.  _ She _ has air. Not fair.

The mirror contraption is lifted away, letting him see up to the ceiling. Was it blocking the air? No, there still isn't any. The headphones go away too. That doesn't help either.

"Jonathan. Listen to me." Her voice is  _ so _ steady. Jonathan tries to focus on her face. "This looks like a panic attack. You're going to be all right. Just try to breathe — in, out, in, out — and let me take care of the rest. In time with me, in, out."

She repeats that a few times and he  _ tries _ but he can't match her pace.

"I'm going to have you sit up," she tells him. "Keep breathing and … there, up." He tries to curl forward but she blocks him, hands firmly on his shoulders. "No, stay upright, give your lungs some space. You're going to be okay. Breathe." She has him turn towards her, feet off the side. That helps a little.

She sets the pace for him again, saying  _ in, out _ just a little slower than he's breathing. But just as he's catching up, she slows it down. And then she slows it down again, and then she switches to  _ in, one, out, one _ . She keeps pulling the goal further away. He gives her an irritated look.

Her eyes crinkle up a little. Not really laughing at him. "Annoyed is okay," she tells him. "But don't get too distracted by it. Eyes on the prize." She counts for him some more, eventually moving to  _ in, one, two _ .

He's shaking. Her hands on his shoulders aren't pressing down, but they're still keeping him from floating away. They're not pressing him upright anymore, either. He tips forward to rest his forehead against her shoulder.

She tenses.

"Sorry," he gasps. He'll move in a second. He just needs a second. He just needs —

"It's okay. Just surprised. Keep breathing." She keeps counting. She's not tensing up any further or pulling away.

Mom would probably be stroking the back of his head now, if she were here instead of the detective. Part of him wishes the detective would do that, but most of him is desperately glad she's  _ not _ . Because she's not his mother. She'll have to be able to work with a version of him later. He doesn't want her to feel any more awkward about it than she's already going to have to.

She just keeps her hands on his shoulders, steady, grounding, her level voice and calm tone giving him a clear structure.

Slowly, slowly, he gets his breathing back under control. He makes himself sit back up.

"Don't try to talk yet," she says when he's almost breathing normally. "Nod or shake. Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head.

"Do you want me to contact your sister about this?"

He shakes his head more firmly. Katie's going to be so upset.

"Are you all right with leaving here with me?"

He nods emphatically.

"Okay. We'll just get your shoes in a minute and head out of here ..." But she's looking around the room. She finally spots whatever she's looking for. "Stay here. I'm just going to cross the room and come right back."

She goes over to the door — no, to a box on the wall next to the door. Oh, it's some kind of dispenser. Rohit and another woman are over there but they seem to be deferring to the detective. She collects a handful of goo and comes back.

"Smell this. It's a hand sanitizer." He does. It's gross. "Does it remind you of anything?" When he shakes his head, she presses, "Does it smell like a hospital to you?"

It's sharp and strange and kind of medicinal, but it doesn't actually smell like a hospital. He shakes his head again.

"Do you feel like you'll get a raging headache if you have to keep smelling it for a bit?"

He's not sure how he would know that, but he shakes his head.

"Okay. Take a little of this and smear it under your nose."

He just gives her a confused look. "Do we have to —" but he can't manage it in one breath "— go look at —" one more "— dead bodies?" But this stuff doesn't smell strong enough for that.

She laughs. "Forgot you might already know that trick. No, but I'll explain what it's really for later."

She's very good about explaining. He dips his finger in her puddle of goo and draws a line across his upper lip.

She makes a face at the remaining goo in her hand. "Come on, let's go find your shoes and blow this popsicle stand."

She can't think that's current slang for him, can she? It sounds like something Dad would say.

She keeps her free hand on his shoulder as he pushes himself off the bed and they head for the storage area. She just sort of waves away Rohit and the other woman, though she asks Rohit for a paper towel as they pass. As Jonathan ties the shoes, Rohit comes back with the paper towel, and the detective uses it to get most of the goo off her hand.

The smell of the goo is still kind of awful, hovering right there under his nose, but at least it's holding the hospital smell away.

Once he has the shoes on, the detective guides him out to the hallway and then to a stairwell. She must have asked where it was, because it's the other way from the elevators they used. He's glad she did. He really doesn't think he could handle waiting for an elevator right now.


	13. Good Cop

The stairwell lets them out onto a side street, so Jonathan has to think for a second to remember where Detective Smith's car is. He starts to head that way, but she catches at his sleeve and redirects him the other way. "Not yet. If I put you in a car right now, you might explode."

He doesn't think it would be that bad, but she seems to know him better than he knows himself, and honestly, he's not really  _ excited _ by the idea of sitting in a car for a while.

"Keep it slow for now," she cautions, holding her pace back to match. "I don't want to risk you getting winded."

He really doesn't think that would be a problem either, but she's obviously smarter than he is, so he obeys. He pulls his sleeve over his hand and raises it up to his face but looks to her for permission.

She catches on after just a second. "Yeah, you can wipe it off now. Or try to, anyway." She's right — the smell diminishes as he wipes away the residue of the sanitizer, but it doesn't go away completely.

They walk for about a block, but the detective is frowning. "I can't really tell how you're breathing like this. Do you know any poems or anything, or maybe song lyrics?"

The only thing that comes to mind is Our Father, so he says that, half questioningly. Saying it does help him feel a little more settled.

"I was hoping for something a little more metered, and maybe longer, but that'll work. You know it in Latin, right?"

He manages not to roll his eyes at her, but it's a close thing. Does he know it in Latin. He  _ loves _ how it sounds in Latin. He wonders if she can hear that in his voice. He understands the reasons why Masses are in the common tongue, he does, but he wishes they could be in Latin for more than just rare special occasions.

"Okay. What other languages do you know at this point? Have you already started Spanish?"

Ooh, that's a nice challenge, because it's a lot closer to Latin than English is, so he has to be careful not to let it switch over. It's still pretty simple, though. They only say it  _ all the time _ in Spanish class.

"Do you know any others? French is offered in a lot of schools — do you know that one?"

He doesn't. "Mrs. Lapierre at church is French Canadian?" he offers, in her accent to show what he means. He's not actually going to say Our Father in it, though. That would be disrespectful.

The detective laughs. " _ There _ you are." She sounds relieved.

He's not sure what she means by that, but she lets their pace increase a little so he decides not to worry about it. "Do I know other languages later?" She said  _ multilingual _ before. "Or, I mean, now?" He doesn't even know the right words in English for all this.

"Cantonese," she says immediately. "We started out with me teaching you, but you left me behind after a few months. Now you pick up new words or phrases in Chinatown sometimes and teach me. You might be getting some Mandarin that way as well, but I don't speak that so I'm not sure. You mentioned once that you have a list of twenty languages you can Mirandize and ask if someone needs a translator in, though I'm guessing that overlaps a bit. I know you've got a bunch of Hebrew. Or Yiddish. Or both, probably."

Something about that is a little funny to her but she doesn't say what.  _ Multilingual _ sounded fancier than what she's describing now, though. He has picked up a few phrases in other languages around the neighborhood, mostly Italian and Polish, but pretty much everybody knows a few phrases in other languages.

"We've never really sat down and done an audit of all your languages," she continues. "And I don't know how you count the ones you're just picking up as you go. Even with languages you don't know at all, you're good at using copying and pantomime enough to pick up a few words and get basics across. It's pretty handy."

If he was that good at it, his grades in Spanish would be better. Then again, he probably doesn't have to write essays in those other languages all the time. Just talking's a lot easier, even if that doesn't really count as being any good at a language. At least it sounds like he does  _ something _ useful for the detective.

"What was the goo for?" he asks. "The sanitizer, I mean." He can still smell it, unfortunately, but at least it's a lot fainter now.

The detective sighs. "I should've called everything off the second we walked in the door. I'm sorry I didn't."

That's not an explanation. "Ma'am?"

"Jack does that same thing whenever we have to go into a hospital. Older-you, I mean," she says, adopting his phrasing. "Not actually  _ stopping _ , but hesitating just inside the door. Edgy the whole time we're there. I knew there was something, but I was hoping it was something you didn't know about yet. But you actually stopped, and you kept rubbing at your nose, and … smell is a really powerful memory trigger."

… Oh.

The detective slows down a little. "Breathe."

He's a little shaky, but it's not that bad out here, where the air just smells like a city. "I'm okay. Sorry I freaked out. Do I … do I do that a lot?"

"No," she says slowly. "No, that was new." She sounds troubled.

"But … you knew how to …"

"My son has asthma," she says. "It's controlled now, but it took us a while to get the medications right, so I had to learn how to get him through breathing crises. That turns out to translate surprisingly well."

That makes sense, he supposes. "Thanks for … you know."

"Don't worry about it," she tells him. "You kept me from falling apart on 9/11. This was nothing."

She's said it's September now, and he thinks she put 9/8/14 on some of the paperwork yesterday. Which doesn't make sense. "Two days from now?"

"Oh." She's startled. "No, sorry, that's … something else. I don't think I want to get into it right now. You'll remember it soon enough yourself."

By her expression, it's something bad — which fits what she was saying — but maybe big rather than personal. He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable, so he leaves it alone. But that reminds him. "Actually, what is today?"

She gives him a very strange look, which makes sense when she says, "The ninth. I thought you already worked that out." But then she realizes what he means. "Oh. Sorry. Tuesday."

So it's Sorrowful if he can get his hands on a rosary. "Thanks."

The detective nods acknowledgement but soon is frowning again, turning something over in her mind. After about another block, she stops walking, so he stops, too.

She looks around to make sure no one is nearby. "I have to ask you some questions. I'll warn you now, you're going to hate them. They're not an accusation. But I  _ have _ to ask you about this stuff, and I need you to really think about your answers and be honest, okay?"

His "Yes, ma'am," is wary. She's been pretty good at predicting what he'll hate.

"Do you feel safe at your sister's house?"

That seems more like something Katie would ask, with her sudden decision to watch him every second. "I'm not going to fall in the toilet and drown or anything," he says, irritated.

"That wasn't the question." She stresses the first few words again: "Do you feel safe in her house?"

He doesn't really understand the question, then. "Yes?"

"Do you feel safe with your sister?"

Of course he does. "Yes."

"Do you feel safe with your sister's husband?"

"I've barely even seen him." But she looks like she's just going to say that's not the question again. "Sure, I guess, yes. I don't — I don't know what you're  _ asking _ ."

"Don't know, or don't want to know? Sorry, ignore that." She studies him for several seconds and then makes a decision. "Look, I think there's nothing here. Or I hope so. But right now, you're checking off too many boxes that  _ can _ mean trouble, and I just need to make sure I'm not putting you right back into that. Normally I'd be asking about your house, your parents, your school, your church — but none of those are actually relevant to you right now. I am planning to send you back to your sister, so I'm just making sure that's the right thing to do."

"Boxes?" Maybe she's right that he doesn't want to understand, but that still means he  _ doesn't _ understand.

"I've seen you in short sleeves once or twice. It's  _ very _ rare, but it does happen. You've always hated being cold, as long as I've known you. So as far as I know, the whole sweatshirt-when-it's-70-out thing is just your personal thermostat. But that doesn't mean it didn't start out as something else. Add that the smell of a hospital is probably what set you up for a panic attack now and still bothers you thirty years later. And then add to those your, pardon my French, frankly shitty self-esteem, along with how much you work to avoid being noticed. I just need to know —"

She stops herself and tries again.

"I don't need to know, because I can't change it now. If someone was hurting you back when you were this age, that's your business to share or not when it comes to me. I just need to make sure that,  _ if _ someone was, it wasn't your sister or anyone else currently in her house, and that you aren't afraid of that now, because I  _ do _ need to make sure I'm not putting you in that kind of situation."

He's shaking his head before she finishes. "No. No one's — I'm not — no one's hurting me." For someone to hurt him, they'd probably have to notice he exists first. The only person who has hurt him is himself, and that was an  _ accident _ , because he screwed up. And it was one time, a year ago, even if no one will let him forget. " _ Especially _ not Katie."

"Okay. Sorry, but I did have to check that. Actually, one more — do you feel safe with me?"

Now she's just being — he doesn't even know what she's being. "Yes," he says, not actually adding  _ obviously _ but not bothering to hide it from his tone.

"Just making sure. It's not like you'd volunteer it if you didn't." She gestures that they can start walking again.

He obeys, but he can't leave her thinking that she's done anything to make him afraid of her, and especially not that she's made him too afraid to even say so. "You've been  _ so nice _ to me, even though I'm a crummy partner. And you keep making —"

"I'm sorry, you're what?" she interrupts, slowing again. Her tone is … not dangerous, exactly, but definitely warning.

He doesn't really want to say it again, but there's no point trying to hide from it. "A bad partner."

"No. You're not." She's annoyed now. "Where the hell is this coming from?"

He didn't need to pass some kind of detective exam to figure it out. "You said I take the easy work and leave the hard stuff for you, and I wasn't —"

"No, I didn't. I said we split up work  _ when we can _ , which we can't always. We're both qualified for all our duties. And I said we split it up according to our  _ respective _ strengths, which include you being better at interviews."

"Interviews are just talking to people, though, that's easy."

"They're really not. Interviews are ..." She pauses to get her words right. " _ Interview _ covers a bunch of different things, but ultimately, it's all about getting people to give us information, usually when those people have reasons not to want to. We have to avoid coercion, and we have to avoid re-traumatizing victims and witnesses any more than we can help. We have to keep track of everyone's rights, and when those rights change, and why, when most people don't know themselves. It's  _ so _ much more than  _ just talking to people _ . And whenever we have to work with other cops, we have to make sure they're staying in the lines, too, because … some of them don't."

That does sound a lot more complicated. "Granddad and his friends don't talk like they worry about that stuff," he says, troubled. But wait, she might think he's saying they know better —

"Let me guess," she says, tone cooling. "Out there on the mean streets? Big tough guys, taking down a bunch of stupid crooks, knocking them around, bending and breaking all those useless rules that just get in the way? Because it's kill or be killed out there with all the animals?"

"Not Granddad," he says uneasily. Granddad mostly talks about helping people, when it's just him. That stuff sounds nice.

"But his buddies," she concludes. "And maybe he doesn't exactly push back."

Jonathan flushes, ashamed. There's not really anything he can say. The way they all talk when they're hanging out never appealed to him, which is one of the reasons he never thought he would be the one to end up joining the police.

"I can't say I'm surprised," the detective says with a sigh. "A bunch of white cops in Southie in the '80s. Well, maybe '80s, maybe earlier, depending how old he would've been then."

"He's retired now," Jonathan says, fighting not to mumble.

"Then yeah. That was all a pretty rough period around here." Then she swerves a bit to bump her shoulder lightly against his arm. "Hey. We're not here to indict your ancestors or anything." She drops to a mutter. "We're  _ supposed _ to be trying to help you feel better. I'm doing a  _ great _ job of looking after you today." But she pushes on before he can manage to voice even one of his many objections to her self-criticism. "Look, forget about them. They're done. It's our turn now. We're working with  _ people _ here, and you've never done anything to make me think you don't recognize that."

That sounds like an  _ awfully _ low bar. It's hard to be impressed that his older self can get over it … but that makes it feel even more disloyal to think that Granddad maybe couldn't.

He's all mixed up about everything now.

The detective takes a breath and makes a clear effort to lighten the mood. "Anyway. You can run down forensics, but you don't especially enjoy it, and I actually do. I can handle interviews, but you're better at them. Besides, you clearly have no idea how much I hate canvassing for witnesses."

Maybe … sometimes he can get his brothers and sisters to smile by messing with them. "So ... just-talking to lots of people," he says carefully, trying to make sure he gets the tone right.

He succeeds, because she does smile, with that same relief from earlier, and she shakes her head just a little bit. "You are such a troll sometimes," she says. He doesn't know what that means, but she sounds fond, so it's probably not too bad. Okay. Older-him must be smart enough to like her, at least, if he's willing to tease her the way she's been teasing him. "Canvassing does  _ start _ with talking to lots of people, yes. Look, you think you can handle a car now? This neighborhood is boring."

It definitely is, so they start making their way back to her car. They've been following a roundabout path, so at least they're not too far away at this point.

"Say we decide to split up a street," the detective says. "In the time it takes me to get three people to talk to me, probably saying nothing in the process, you've done your side of the street, worked your way back up mine, and developed two or three strong leads. And scored an invitation to Sunday dinner from an  _ abuela _ who's trying to find matches for her unmarried relatives."

She doesn't have to make up silly —

"I'm not exaggerating," she says. "And, okay, the  _ abuela _ thing only happened once, and it was actually a different case. But my point stands. You're not a bad partner."

"But I didn't really train you when I was supposed to. And if I can't do my job in hospitals — you must have to work in them all the time."

"The training thing is complicated, but long story short, you did  _ too _ train me and I dare you to prove you didn't," she retorts, all but sticking out her tongue. "And I never said you can't do your job in hospitals, so I don't understand why you think I did."

They've reached her car, but she stops next to it rather than unlocking the doors. "You do that a lot, and I don't get why. See … there's what people  _ say _ —" she puts out her right hand midair "— and what they  _ mean _ ." She puts out her left hand facing the right, about a foot apart, as if she's about to play cat's cradle with invisible string.

"Most people hear something right around here." She leaves her what-people-say hand in place and then uses her left pointer finger to draw a vague circle within about an inch or two of her right palm. "Most of the time, with most people,  _ you _ hear something more over here." She puts her what-people-mean hand back in place and then draws the same vague circle near it with her right pointer finger.

Then she places her hands flat together. "When I'm talking to you, I try to keep them about like this. Like you said earlier, why lie when it's obvious? And you generally hear me in the same place. But when I'm talking to you  _ about you _ , sometimes you hear something over here." She points to her right elbow. "Like I said, I don't get why, though it usually has to do with putting yourself down. I wish you wouldn't. If I'm going to insult you, I'd rather have the satisfaction of knowing I  _ meant _ to."

With that she unlocks the doors and gets in. He follows, not sure  _ what _ to think about all of that.


	14. Training

Detective Smith starts the car but doesn't pull out yet. "Look, I know you're probably not hungry, but I don't think it's a good idea to let you skip lunch completely at this age. I'm not going to ask you to eat a ton. I'd just like you to try to get a little food in you. You've got a choice — should we pick something up somewhere, or would you rather go back to your sister's place?"

Oh. That's a harder question than it should be.

Normally the answer would be to go to Katie. She's probably got some bread and peanut butter, and that's all he really needs. He still doesn't want to make the detective spend money if he doesn't have to.

But while the detective has helped him feel a lot better by keeping him walking around and talking, he feels strangely hollow and fragile, like an empty eggshell. He's still a little mad at Katie from this morning, and he's a lot ashamed of how he treated her.

"On second thought, I should check with her, too. She might be busy or still napping or something. So if you want to go somewhere else, I'll just let her know about when we should be done with that, but if you want to go to her place, I'll make sure that works for her, too."

He can't avoid Katie forever. "If it's okay with her, then her place, please."

The detective pulls out her phone but then just taps at the screen. It's kind of funny how everyone calls them phones but no one seems to call anyone with them. She waits for about a minute, and then just as she's about to say something, the screen changes and she reads it instead. "Okay. Plan lunch is a go."

In the process of pulling out the space, she notices his bewildered expression and chuckles. "She'd like us to go back to her place."

So either Katie forgives him at least a little, or else she still doesn't trust him not to trip and fall in front of a street trolley. He's not sure which one is more likely. She has thirty more years of knowing him than he has of knowing her, or even of knowing himself. Maybe she's right to think he's not smart enough to look both ways anymore.

But she must know the detective won't let him get hurt.

"Do I have to come back and do this right later?" He doesn't want to ask, but he'd rather know than be surprised.

The detective's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "That research study can go —" She makes herself take a breath. "No. You're done. I'll handle it."

Jonathan closes his eyes for a second in relief. "Thank you."

When he opens his eyes again, he sees that the detective just looks pained, but she shouldn't. She tried to tell him he could stop, multiple times. Even his older self tried to warn him, in that note. He was just too thick to understand.

He doesn't want to think anymore. He hasn't been able to figure anything out. "You said the training thing is complicated," he ventures. "Is it too complicated to explain now?" Traffic is getting heavier as they approach lunchtime, so it seems like she'll have plenty of time. "I know I might not really understand, but …"

"But you need a distraction?" She sounds sympathetic, even though it means he's asking her for even more.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, I can try. So, training is …" She considers. "We're all trained for the work we do, of course, but training someone is itself a skill. There are different styles of teaching and different styles of learning, and they don't always match up. Just ask — never mind. Different styles. But when we're just starting out in a rank or a new role, we're generally paired up with someone more experienced. That's not really  _ training _ , honestly, even though we call it that. It's more a matter of making sure we can translate training to practice.

"I was supposed to pair up with Harry Litchfield, but he had to go out on leave right when I joined, so the lieutenant put me with Carlotti. And then  _ he _ went and got himself arrested a couple of weeks later." There's a little contempt in her voice, but not nearly as much as something like that sounds like it deserves. "The lieutenant didn't want me working alone just yet, so he paired me up with you. We were both surprised by that. I knew pretty much nothing about you, and you …"

Jonathan braces himself.

"You hate command," she says. "You  _ can _ run a scene when you have to, but you hate doing it. You don't ever like giving orders. I think a lot of that is because you  _ do not _ like drawing attention."

Oh. Jonathan is startled for something about his older self to sound so familiar.

"And you never really learned much about  _ how _ to train anyone, so you tried to tell him you weren't qualified, but …" She smiles. "You know, the lieutenant  _ said _ he was stuck for options, but honestly, I think he meant to pair us up together eventually anyway, and he just had to move his timeline up a lot more than he'd planned."

Jonathan is trying to reconcile that with the brusque guy he briefly met earlier. It's not going too well.

"We didn't know that back then, though. So you were stuck with an assignment you didn't feel ready for, especially since I was already solid on basic procedures, and I had no idea what to think about you."

Jonathan sinks down a bit. "Because I'm …"

"What? No. Pretty much any ending I can think of for that, the answer is no. It was because …" She hesitates but then decides to go ahead. "There's this … vague, polite smile you do. If someone tries to get your attention, it takes you a second to notice —" she sounds sarcastic about that "— and then you give them your attention, or at least part of it, with that smile. And you'll listen to what they say, or get introduced to someone, and you'll go along, but that smile says you're not  _ entirely _ following what's happening, or you didn't quite understand what someone was trying to imply, but you're too polite to say anything about it, and you eventually wander off. And then if you meet someone again, that smile suggests you might not actually remember meeting them the first time but, again, are too polite to mention it. For our first couple of weeks, that smile was just about all I could get out of you, to the point that I started to wonder if I should be reintroducing myself every shift."

That sounds maddening. Why would she have put up with it any longer than she had to?

"I get why you do it," she says. "It took me a while, but … if you're that distracted, if you're that blandly polite, you  _ obviously _ can't have heard certain crude jokes or snide remarks, or at least you  _ obviously _ didn't catch their real meaning. It means you don't have to react to them. It gives everyone an out without confrontation. It … keeps the peace." Her tone suggests it's something she doesn't like but has learned to live with. "That's never been my style, so it took me a while to catch on. I  _ hate _ that smile," she adds with sudden vehemence. "You're not stupid, but you use that smile to play it, and sometimes I think you buy it yourself."

Jonathan wants to ask what makes her so sure he isn't, but that would probably just sound like he's fishing for praise.

"Sorry," she says. "I've spent a very long time not saying that. And maybe I still shouldn't have, but too late now. Anyway. That smile is utter bull, but you're very good at the act and people seem happy to buy it. It just doesn't really hold up over time, with someone who works closely with you. Because while you were trying to convince the lieutenant to switch me to someone  _ more qualified _ , I was trying to figure out whether you didn't like me for being a woman or being black or both."

How  _ could _ he let her think that? "I'm  _ so sorry _ —"

But she waves him quiet. "It wasn't any of that. I'd just had bad experiences, so I was trying to figure you out … at the same time you were trying your hardest  _ not _ to be figured out. So I'd ask you how your day off went, and you'd always give the same vague nothing-much answer and then ask about mine. But you'd always follow up by asking about some detail, based on a passing comment I'd made days earlier, so you could get me talking about things from my life instead of trying to get anything from you."

She glances at him with a knowing smile, like she thinks this discussion is pretty much the same thing. And … that's not why he asked her to explain, but … maybe it kind of is, a little.

"It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that didn't fit with your whole sorry-did-you-say-something? act. But when you were distracted, you'd slip a little, let on that you'd noticed this or remembered that or heard some other thing I had carefully  _ not _ actually said. I finally put together that it wasn't personal — you didn't know me well enough to know if it was safe to drop the act, and you really did feel unqualified to tell me what to do and didn't know what to do about that. It was the situation you didn't like, not me."

When she puts it like that, it seems obvious that his older self would have felt that way.

"Once I got you to understand what I was actually looking for, you settled down and actually started showing me the ropes." She grins. "But you shot yourself in the foot, because you spent so long protesting to the lieutenant that he decided maybe you were asking for a refresher yourself. So when Harry got back, instead of reassigning me, he just had  _ both _ of us work with Harry for a while, when we could overlap."

Oops. That was probably pretty embarrassing, but Jonathan bets older-him needed all the help he could get. "You like them," he says. When she gives him a questioning glance, he clarifies, "Your lieutenant and Harry …" What did she say his name was? "Litchfield?"

"See, you do catch details," she says. "You finally stopped pretending you didn't when it was just the two of us, which was a relief. Lt. Ciccone,  _ our _ lieutenant, is a good guy. He can be tough, but he looks after us and makes sure we've got any support we need. Normally you won't listen to any kind of criticism of him without pushing back. It's one of the very few things you've never just politely gone along with. Now I wish I'd known you would end up with this grudge against him. I would've saved up my minor complaints."

It's just teasing. She's not going to push him about his "grudge", which is good, because Jonathan still can't bring himself to like the guy.

"And Harry … Harry was … hmm. Very focused.  _ Amazing _ clearance rate, rigorous procedures, and no time or attention for anything that wasn't work. He didn't socialize, he didn't chat. He clearly couldn't have cared less about race or sex or orientation, he just cared if we were doing our jobs. That was pretty damn refreshing, let me tell you. I think you mentioned that he was your original training partner, and I'm pretty sure you borrowed a bit from him for your whole act.

"But his interview style … it was … functional. You're not ever going to speak up against a superior or senior officer, but you definitely looked like you wanted to a few times. And then, watching how you …  _ salvaged _ isn't the right word, because his interviews were adequate. They had to be, with his clearance rate. But I watched how you would circle back to ask a few more questions, or suggest divisions of labor that put more of the interview work on yourself, or carefully insert yourself into an interview to redirect it. I watched how you made them  _ better _ — speeding things up, spotting what would make someone nervous enough or relaxed enough to open up, figuring out not just which people were hiding things but what  _ sort _ of things they were hiding, leaving witnesses a little less rattled when we were done. Harry saw it, too, and gave you room to work rather than shutting you down. All of that taught me far more about interview techniques than anything either of you tried to  _ tell _ me."

That still sounds more like she trained herself, more or less, than that he did the job he was supposed to for her. But she seems determined to give him more credit than the other, far better qualified detective.

He's so tempted to believe her, that this is something he's actually  _ good _ at, maybe even better than other people. He's not sure he dares to, though. The photography was one thing — it looked hard, but he's toyed with it some already, so he knows what sorts of things he needs to work on. And in the end that's just a hobby, making nice pictures.  _ This _ is about something that still sounds kind of easy but is part of something that matters a  _ lot _ .

She's quiet for a few seconds and gives him a thoughtful look, but then she continues in the same vein. "We figured out a balance. I started  _ asking _ about things if I wasn't sure, and you got better about explaining anything you realized I was a little shaky on. You were honestly not a great example of how to take charge of a scene, but it turned out you were  _ more _ than happy to give me pointers so I could do it myself while you stayed in the background. Because you know how, intellectually. You notice  _ everything _ , and that includes how senior officers take command. And you could actually do it yourself if you wanted to — I've seen you undercover, or coaxing reluctant people to talk, or even running a scene when you're not given a choice about it, so I know you can play any role you set your mind to. You just really don't want to go for any kind of command if you can possibly avoid it."

Well, that just makes sense. "But … don't  _ you _ ?" Because he can hear it a little, and he's pretty sure she'd be good at it. Granddad spent his whole career in patrol and was happy with that, but she shouldn't still be just a detective.

"I used to," she says, not quite an admission. "Some people try to fix systems from the outside, but we're both reformers. We're trying to fix it from the inside. You're the quiet kind of reformer.  _ I _ was going to take over and be chief by the time I was forty or something." Her smile is a little rueful, a little wistful. She's quiet for a bit, but before he can figure out how to ask what went wrong, she says, "Things changed. I'm actually going to throw the privacy flag for some of it, but for the rest, I realized I didn't actually want to be stuck at a desk except for when I had to go out at all hours to wrangle a bunch of politics. I like what we do, so I decided I'd rather keep doing it."

And she stayed  _ with him _ the whole time. He's so glad she did, because what if this had happened to him but she hadn't been around?

… Which is an awfully selfish way to look at it, he knows. But he also knows he's unspeakably lucky to have her.

"I'm sorry I made you think I didn't like you," he says. "Older-me, I mean, when you first paired up."

She laughs for some reason. "As the inescapable movie song says, let it go. It was rough at the time, but this was something like fifteen years ago. We're good now, I promise you. In fact, if at any point you feel like you need to apologize for anything I mention about our past, ask if your older-and-wiser self  _ really _ would have just let things sit without already having apologized, okay?"

She glances over at him as she says it, but not for long because she's driving, so he doesn't have to work too hard to keep her from seeing his reaction to that.  _ Wiser _ . Right.

Although, if the detective has stuck with older-him for almost as long as Jonathan has  _ been alive _ , maybe he does at least know how to apologize properly.

But then the detective mutters, " _ Bad partner _ ," irritably. She drums her fingers on the wheel for a bit. She breaks off briefly to gesture at the car ahead of them — nothing rude, just an aimless sort of frustration — and then drums a little longer.

She finally makes up her mind.

"We were a few weeks in," she says. "Maybe a couple of months. I don't know exactly how far — I could look up the dates, but it doesn't really matter. Far enough that I was starting to be sure that you keeping your distance wasn't personal, and you were starting to relax enough to let on that you weren't the space case you pretended to be. We caught a shots-fired call late in our shift and met up with some unis to check it out. The neighbors didn't know why we were there — they'd heard a fight and some banging but hadn't called anything in. We couldn't get a response, found — found reason to think there was trouble. We had to break into the apartment, clear each room. You were the first one to find …"

She pauses, reconsiders.

"We see a lot, in this job. It's easy to burn out, stop caring, because it's  _ hard _ and we have to keep going. We find ways, because we have to. I'm not going to tell you what we found, because I don't think  _ this _ you —"

"It's okay," Jonathan says quickly. "I know. I — I don't really want to know exactly what it was." Her expression is more than enough.

"Okay," she says, relieved that she doesn't have to talk him out of pestering her for gruesome details. "Anyway, you found it first. It shook you a bit — you crossed yourself, which you don't really do much of at work — but then you braced yourself and turned to call it in. But then I got close enough to see, and … I froze up."

_ Froze up _ sounds like a euphemism. Whatever it was upset her.

"We can't really predict which ones will get to us," she says, fighting down her own remembered embarrassment. "There's not always a particular rhyme or reason to it. But I froze up for this one, right in front of you. And you just got me backed away in case I was going to hurl or something, sat me down, made sure no one else came in. Talked at me for a while as you started working, until I pulled myself together — about a time when you froze up, and that might have been the first personal story you ever offered freely. Acted like nothing happened after." It sounds like she's building towards something, but she just finishes, "You're not a bad partner, okay?"

He must have missed something, but he doesn't understand.

She notices after a few seconds. "You don't see it yet. That's fine, just give me a second to explain."

She passes through another traffic light, then turns onto the next small side street and pulls over so she can shift the car to park and face him better.

"So, you've got a lot going for you, okay?" She starts ticking things off on her fingers. "You're white, male, Irish, Catholic, and from Southie. Well, everyone  _ thinks _ you're from Southie, which is the same thing. That gives you something in common with most other cops, and the whole set in common with a surprisingly large number of them. You can use those things — you  _ do _ use those things — to blend in, go unnoticed. On the other side, you've got being gay." She raises a finger on the other hand briefly, showing the comparison, before dropping her hands. "That complicates things, sets you apart."

He doesn't quite flinch, but he wants to. He will never understand how she can just  _ say _ that word like it's no big deal.

"So let's look at the scenario again. You're the senior officer on the scene, so people are going to be looking to you, which you're already not happy about. You don't like what you've found, but you dealt with it. And right next to you is a — not a rookie, but a rank-rookie, I guess. Who's also a woman, and black, and younger than you, and hell, not even originally from Boston. And she just froze up like a raw recruit. So. What do you do?"

Jonathan frowns in confusion. "Give you — um, her — a minute." She said he had, and that only makes sense.

"Why not mock her? Make an example? Show everybody that, sure, maybe there's something different about you, but she's a lot more different — and unlike you, she clearly can't  _ really _ handle the job. It must be because your differences don't really matter and hers do, right?"

Jonathan stares at her. "No!" How could anyone be so horrible?

He doesn't want to admit that what she's saying does make a certain insidious kind of sense. He's seen that same sort of calculation in some of the kids who keep going after Jamie.

But he wouldn't. Not  _ ever _ .

"Why not? I've worked with guys who would do it in a second. So have you. Hell, you traded me a story of when someone  _ did _ , more or less, though at least that was just about you being pretty young at the time."

"But that's not —  _ not _ doing that stuff isn't enough for being a good partner. It just means being a halfway decent person." He admittedly hasn't had a lot of evidence of even that for his older self, though, so maybe this actually is progress.

"I'm starting there because I'm not sure you give yourself credit for even that much," she says wryly.

He glances over at her sharply — she teased  _ him _ about mind-reading? — but realizes too late that, in letting her see him do that, he confirmed it.

She shakes her head. "Like I said. But you weren't just  _ decent _ , okay? You made sure I was okay and tried to keep me from being embarrassed about it. You made sure no one else knew. You didn't treat me like an embarrassment to you, or even graciously ignore me until I could be professional — instead, you immediately offered me a story of when you went through the same kind of thing, to make sure I knew you weren't looking down on me. You were  _ kind _ , to someone you barely knew and didn't expect to see much of after a few more weeks or months, when your life would have been so much simpler if I just  _ went away _ ."

That … that would have been so selfish. And if he had been, she wouldn't be here with him. But how could older-him  _ not _ have been selfish, when Jonathan is being so selfish now?

He thought he understood, at least a little, but everything's suddenly upside-down, on top of the backwards it already was. 

"I could spend the rest of the day telling you about ways you've been a good partner all this time, but I've actually already told you some of them. You forget, or find reasons they don't count, or just stop hearing me maybe. One of my few complaints is that you're so rough on my partner and I can't figure out how to make you stop," she adds with a slight smile. "You've got this weird blind spot about yourself, but you do better when it's a matter of trusting me. So … just trust me not to tie myself to someone who isn't worth it, okay? I've had other options. Still do.  _ I've _ decided that what we have works best for me."

There's no way he could  _ ever _ have deserved her. He blushes and looks down at his hands, because she's left him with nothing he can say.

But she's asking him to trust her, just like his note to himself told him to. The note could be dismissed, but he can't refuse her. "Yes, ma'am," he says softly.

"... Okay." She sounds like she can't quite decide if she's surprised, which is fair, because Jonathan has no idea how to feel himself. "So, are you still up for going back to your sister's? We're only a few minutes away now, but you  _ do _ still have a choice."

Jonathan wants to just nod his agreement, but he does actually have manners, and she'd worried that he might not feel safe with Katie. So he manages to say, "Yes, ma'am," again, more firmly this time. Katie is his sister. He can't just go around breaking things and then running away from them.


	15. Soup

Detective Smith gets them going again, staying on the prettier side roads this time. Even with that, she was right that it only takes them a few more minutes. Jonathan finds himself hesitating about getting out of the car, but he  _ knows _ that's childish and makes himself move after a second.

But the detective puts out her hand before he can open the car door. "Hang on a second." She sighs. "Look. I honestly do think everything is fine, but it's my  _ job _ to be suspicious and second-guess things. I  _ think _ your sister has a landline — there was the number for one in your paperwork — but I didn't really get a chance to look around and make sure she really does, or make sure you know where it is. The kind of phone you're used to, wired into the wall," she clarifies. "A lot of people just use cell phones now, which puts people who don't  _ have _ those at a disadvantage."

"There is one," Jonathan tells her. "A real phone. It's by the back door of the kitchen, the one to the back entryway." He didn't really pay much attention to it, but he saw it.

She smiles,  _ very _ pleased. "Good awareness of your surroundings. Well done." She pulls out her wallet and takes a business card out of it while he fights not to blush. "This is how to reach me." She considers the front of the card for a second, then pulls out a pen and writes on the back. "The front is through work. The back is my personal cell phone. Oh, make sure you include the area code — you pretty much always have to use that now, even for local calls." She holds the card out to him. "Keep that on you if you can. Try not to let anyone know you have it."

He takes it carefully. "Why not?"

"Never reveal your secret weapon. Or, in this case, your emergency exit. If something goes very wrong —  _ if _ , I don't think it will, this is just in case," she amends as he starts to understand what she's implying, starts to scowl, "or even if you just get into another fight and need a break, even if you're okay but you just really need some space from your family for a while, you call me. You call 911 if you're in any kind of actual danger, and otherwise you make sure you're safe first if you can, but then you  _ call me _ no matter what. Got it?"

But he would never need —

"You're my partner," she tells him, quiet but intense. "I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I let you get hurt just because I wasn't careful enough."

… Oh.

It's like Katie. It's  _ almost exactly _ like Katie, and that makes him start to feel trapped and exposed again. But the detective is putting it in his hands, leaving the decision to him, trusting him to know if he needs help, and that gives him room to breathe.

Which isn't fair to Katie, because she's right, too. They'll both blame themselves if he gets hurt. He likes the detective's way of handling it better, but Katie's scared for him, and that's  _ his _ fault. Not hers.

Jonathan puts the card in his pocket. "Yes, ma'am."

She nods that he can get out then, but she also gets out and goes up to the front door with him. "In case you need a mediator," she explains when he looks at her questioningly. "Unless you'd rather I scram?"

His, "No," is so hasty it leaves the  _ ma'am _ part behind, and then he can't figure out how to add it back without sounding insulting or grudging. Usually his  _ manners _ are at least reliable.

The detective doesn't seem offended, though, just reaching over to ring the doorbell.

Jonathan rehearses the words he needs to say. He has more time than he expected to run over them. After a couple of minutes and a second ring of the doorbell, he finally hears footsteps and the door opens.

"Sorry, I already forgot," Katie says in a rush. "Usually you just knock and come on in." She steps back so they can enter.

She threw him off, so he does enter instead of saying anything, waiting for the detective to step in as well and for Katie to close the door because that lets him line up the words again. As she turns back, he quickly says, "Sorry I was awful —" just as Katie is saying, "Jonny, I'm so sorry —"

The detective chuckles a little and mutters to herself, "Guess not. Should've figured."

While Jonathan is slightly distracted by that, Katie plows ahead. "I shouldn't have been so smothering. I'll back off. I'll  _ try _ to back off. I just —"

"I know," he says, ashamed. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I won't go anywhere without telling you." There's not anywhere  _ to _ go, as she mentioned. That makes him feel just as smothered and trapped, but it can't really be helped. Except … the detective did just offer him a way out if he really needs it, and that  _ does _ help a little. "I'm sorry I was so horrible all morning."

"You really weren't," Katie insists, pulling him into a hug. He clings a little harder than he really should, and she's starting to frown a bit in concern when he pulls away, so he makes himself step back a little extra.

"That looks like my cue," the detective says, nodding towards the door that Katie is still blocking.

Katie doesn't move away yet, though. "Want to stay for lunch? It's creamy tomato hint-of-garlic soup."

The detective, who was obviously on the verge of politely declining, hesitates. "Is it, now."

"Apparently there was stress-cooking last night," Katie says, somewhat mysteriously. Jonathan doesn't remember her making any kind of soup. "The made-way-too-much-food distribution network has been called into action."

Oh. They're talking over his head — which is a weird way to put it, since they're both shorter — and both amused by whatever it is. The detective says, "Twist my arm," clearly now planning to stick around.

Jonathan is honestly relieved, because maybe knowing she's watching will help him behave.

They all head to the kitchen, where Katie has a pot of soup on the stove over low heat. "The microwave feels like cheating," Katie tells the detective, a little defensively. "I always worry about ruining it with uneven heating or something." The detective smiles a little in acknowledgement. She's glancing over towards the back door, and she relaxes once she's reassured herself about the phone.

Katie stirs the soup a few extra times before turning off the heat and moving the pot to a trivet on the kitchen table, next to a platter of what look like toasted cheese sandwiches. She waves the detective to one seat, firmly points Jonathan into a second with a glare until he reluctantly sits, and quickly gets out dishes. She starts to fill a bowl, but the detective suddenly says, "Just a little," so Katie does but looks confused.

The detective takes the bowl from Katie but sets it in front of Jonathan. "Try it, and if you don't like it,  _ actually say so _ . You can have something else." She glances over to Katie to add, "Fusion was  _ not _ a hit yesterday."

Katie looks lost. "But Jon loves this soup."

"The adult version does," the detective agrees. "But the adult version likes that sandwich this version hated yesterday. At least as far as I know, but that's a question to be explored later."

Jonathan sinks down in his seat, embarrassed. "I didn't …  _ hate _ …"

"The only time you eat anything that quickly is if you hate it and can't quite bring yourself to spit it out, so you're just trying to get it over with," the detective informs him. "Well, or if you're bolting something down because you're trying to be on time to court and don't want to risk your stomach grumbling during testimony, but I'm  _ pretty _ sure that wasn't the case this time."

He never meant to make her think he hated it. Even if he kind of did. "You didn't say anything."

"You said it was fine, which meant you wanted me to leave it alone. I didn't want to push you into feeling like you had to pretend you  _ liked _ it."

It's not fair that she  _ knows _ him like this. Katie is watching them both, looking kind of sad.

"If you slide down any further, you're going to fall out of that chair," the detective points out. "Which, hey, you do you."

He sits up, wondering what that's supposed to mean.

"So try the soup," she continues. Her tone takes on an edge. "And maybe close your eyes or something so you're not checking how much it matters to your sister whether you like it instead of paying any attention to your own opinion."

" _ Stop _ that," Jonathan says, manners completely abandoning him.

The detective just gives him a level look. "I will if you will. Look, seriously, just try it and then try being honest. If you like it, yay, you can have more. If you don't like it, you can have something else. The rest will still get eaten. By me, if necessary," she adds with a small grin.

Katie scoffs as she hands the detective a full bowl and then a plate with a couple of half-sandwiches on it. "Arm-wrestle you for it."

Oh. They want him to understand he wouldn't be wasting food if he doesn't want any of it.

Katie starts to put a half-sandwich on a plate but pauses, puts it back, and takes the plate over to the fridge. While she's doing whatever she's doing over there, he says grace  _ very _ quietly because the detective's scrutiny is making him uncomfortable and then tries the soup.

Tomato soup is usually pretty boring, though that doesn't seem like a bad idea right now. This has a bunch of cream in it, too, smoothing out the usual slight bitterness, but there's also just a little spiciness to keep it from being bland. Maybe garlic, but maybe some other things too. He frowns and tries another spoonful.

"Thoughts?" the detective prompts.

"I don't know," he says slowly. It's kind of weird, but … not bad?

"Are we actually witnessing the birth of an  _ honest opinion _ here?" the detective asks with faux excitement.

Jonathan doesn't stick his tongue out at her, but he wants to.

Katie comes back and hands over the plate, which just has a bit of cheese cut off a block on it. "Try that, too. I forgot we always had that weird orange cheese when we were kids. This is a lot sharper. You might not like it."

"And it's fine if I don't, I get it," he says, because he heard the detective start to draw a breath to say something like that. He tries the cheese and can't help making a face, because Katie wasn't kidding. If she hadn't warned him, he would have taken the sharpness for sourness, like spoiled milk.

Although … he tries the last spoonful of soup. Okay. They're meant to go together.

"What do you think?" Katie asks, and yeah, she's trying not to push but she wants him to like it.

He  _ really _ wants to tell her he does, but the detective asked him to be honest, and she knew he lied about the sandwich. "I don't know yet," he admits. He stands to add just one ladle's worth to his bowl, takes just one half-sandwich before sitting back down. He can get through that much no matter what, and he thinks maybe it's growing on him a little. "I need to think about it."

"Thank you," the detective says, maybe because she can see he's really trying. He draws in on himself a little, uncomfortable, and she starts talking about recipes with Katie.

He ends up deciding it's not too bad. The soup is better than the sandwich, which is honestly too sharp, but tiny bits of the sandwich along with the soup is pretty okay. He has to take a little more soup to make the balance work out.

Katie offers him more when he finally finishes the half-sandwich, but he declines. "I'm full," he explains, adding, "really," when she looks dubious. He wasn't very hungry to start with. Mom probably would have made him try to eat at least a little more, but Katie doesn't, and the detective doesn't say anything either.

"I think I  _ do _ like the soup," he adds. Katie looks far happier about that than makes any sense. The detective looks suspicious, so he makes sure to mention, "Not really the cheese, though, sorry."

No one really seems to care about the cheese either way. He doesn't know why they're being so weird about the soup, but he suspects he wouldn't get a straight answer if he asked, so he doesn't bother.

Katie can't really object to his collecting the dirty dishes while she deals with the rest of the soup, though she looks like she wants to. Instead, she just has him stack them in the sink for now. She divides the soup into a bunch of smaller containers, and by the way they're talking, at least one of those is for the detective to take with her. They apparently weren't kidding earlier about making sure the rest of the soup gets eaten.

Jonathan tries to figure out how to stay out of the way. He wants to go find something else to do so they can talk and get on with their various demands, but he told Katie he wouldn't just leave.

And then the detective catches Katie's eye and tips her head towards Jonathan.  _ Why _ can't they just let him be invisible?

But Katie does shift her focus to him. "Anything you want to do with the afternoon? We've got a few hours before the kids get home."

"You said you have pictures?" he ventures. "Of family?" Because he misses them all  _ so much _ , and pictures aren't the same at all but at least they're  _ something _ . And maybe … maybe she would sit with him … "Could we look at those?"

Her expression softens. "Yeah, of course."

The detective accepts her container of soup from Katie. "I'll just take off, then —"

"You could stay," Jonathan suggests, surprising himself. But she doesn't know his family, because his older self doesn't share  _ anything _ with her, and she should know them because he's awful but they're  _ not _ and neither is she. She should be able to know about them, and if his older self doesn't like that, well,  _ too bad _ . He's not  _ here _ and Jonathan is.

She's going to decline. She opens her mouth and she's going to decline, so he squeezes the fabric of his cuffs tight in his hands and adds, "Please?"

She just stares at him for a few seconds, clearly shocked. "Yeah," she says finally. "Of course."

"What, don't I even know how to say  _ please _ anymore?" he asks bitterly. Every time he thinks he knows just how terrible he's going to be —

"You don't ask for things," she says. "Pretty much ever."

"Yes he does," Katie says, sounding confused.

"Anything that matters? Especially if he already thinks he's going to get a  _ no _ ?" But then she hesitates. "Maybe it's different with you."

"No, you have a point," Katie says. "He  _ does _ , but not often."

He's right here. They don't have to talk like he isn't.

"Do you know how he invited me to his wedding?" the detective asks Katie. Oh. That him  _ isn't _ here, and Jonathan suddenly wishes he weren't, either. "'Oh, hey, nearly forgot, here's a fancy envelope, but don't open it here. It's not really for anything important. It can wait. And you probably can't make it, but that's okay, just maybe let me know for sure if you get a chance because we're trying to get a count. No rush. Anyway, back to that case we're working on.'"

Katie is half laughing, saying, "Oh, he  _ didn't _ ," in a way that says she totally believes he did, and this  _ isn't funny _ .

"Don't —" he tries to tell them. "Why are you —"

Katie glances at him and stops laughing immediately. "What's wrong?"

He wraps his arms around himself because he can't back away any further. Stupid fridge in the way. "It's not — if I tried to — it's not  _ funny _ —"

"Breathe," the detective says quietly. "We don't understand. We need you to explain, so you need to breathe, okay?"

"You said — you said you were at my wedding and — and that it was obvious that I'm — I'm —"

"I said I was at your wedding," she says slowly, "and that it was obvious there that you were gay. And I said that because you were marrying a man at the time."

… What?

"I was a little flip about it. I'm sorry for that. What did you think I meant?" she asks carefully.

"That's not — I can't marry a — a  _ man _ —"

"You can now," Katie says, with a little of that strange fierceness from last night.

"But … the church …"

"Not in the church, no," Katie agrees, sounding unhappy about it. But if it's not in the church, it's  _ not a wedding _ . "But his rabbi was more than happy to officiate."

Rabbi? And wait, the detective said he knew Hebrew and Yiddish, and she thought that was kind of funny … "I  _ converted _ ?" He left the  _ church _ ?

The detective covers her face with her hand.

"No," Katie says. "Slow  _ down _ . You didn't convert. His rabbi was fine with an interfaith ceremony. You married a Jewish man, in a Jewish ceremony, without converting. And then, in 2004, the state legalized, so you got a civil marriage license, too. And then a couple of years ago the ban on federal recognition was struck down, so you're officially married on that level now. To a man. You didn't …" She pauses to work something out and then groans. "Oh, Jon. You did not propose to a woman in a desperate attempt to renounce your sexuality only to ditch her publicly at the ceremony."

The detective makes a choked noise. "I'm sorry," she says, sounding strangled. "This really isn't funny, I don't …" But she can't finish whatever she's saying.

"Where did you even — were you watching soap operas when you were home sick?" Katie asks.

"Who needs soap operas when you're an Olympic-level catastrophist?" the detective asks, dropping her hand and fighting her voice down to something almost level.

"What was I  _ supposed _ to think?" Jonathan asks plaintively.

"Not that," Katie says, pulling him into a hug. He still has his arms wrapped around himself, but he leans into her as much as he can.

"This one's on me," the detective says with a sigh. "I didn't stop to think about how  _ much _ you actually knew yet, and I do have some idea how you think. I really should have been clearer."

"I was right there," Katie says, "and I actually  _ did _ know how much we'd talked about. I didn't catch it either. I'm too used to already knowing. I'm so sorry, Jonny. I should have told you."

He really shouldn't let them take the blame, but he doesn't know how to tell them how easy it was to think he could have been so terrible. He doesn't know what to do now that he's been told that, in at least this one case, he's  _ not _ .

"I should have asked," he admits finally. "It didn't make sense. I should have asked."

Katie releases him, so he shifts his weight back so she can step away.

"Maybe I should go," the detective says, but she doesn't sound very sure.

"Jon asked you to stay," Katie points out, because she's the best. She looks to him. "Did you still want to do pictures?"

He nods. But they can't know what he won't  _ tell _ them, so he makes himself explain, "I miss them. If … if I could just ..."

"Okay," Katie says gently. "Just let me finish cleaning up." 


	16. Family Pictures

Katie has Jonathan move away from the fridge so she can put away the smaller containers of soup and rinses the pot quickly, but she leaves everything else for later. Then she guides them all to the family room, where she has Jonathan sit in the middle of the bigger couch before she heads up to the formal room to grab her albums.

The detective hovers, looking uncertain. She winces suddenly. "Do you know what  _ catastrophist _ means?"

"Disaster?" Jonathan ventures. He  _ is _ a little surprised she called him that. He is one, but he didn't quite expect her to say it.

She gets a  _ thought so _ look on her face. "It's someone who  _ thinks in terms of _ disasters. Not someone who  _ is _ a disaster. Okay?"

That makes more sense, and it fits the shape of the word a lot better when he stops to think about it. "Yes, ma'am." Although … "Why isn't it someone who studies catastrophes? Like  _ scientist _ ?"

She blinks. "Good question.  _ Physicist, meteorologist _ … but there's also  _ optimist _ and  _ pessimist _ . Maybe it's modeled on those instead." She smiles a little. "There's someone we can ask later."

Katie soon returns, dropping onto the couch to his left and setting a huge stack of albums on the side table. She pulls out one of the albums and sets it in Jonathan's lap, gesturing to the detective to sit on the other side. After a moment's hesitation, the detective does, turned slightly to make conversation easier.

Then, as he'd quietly hoped, Katie puts an arm around him. "Is this okay?"

He has to shift a little to keep from pressing his bruised shoulder against her, but then he nods.

Katie opens the album to a picture Jonathan has seen before. "This is probably the classic picture of our family," she tells the detective. "Mary Ellen's senior year of high school." She points out Mom and Dad in the middle, Mary Ellen and Chris to either side, the plainer younger three kids ranged around them. The version of Jonathan in this picture is in ninth grade, blissfully unaware it's his last good year.

Katie closes that album for the moment and sets  _ yet another _ flat-screened device on top, waking it up and making it show a particular picture. "Sorry, the more recent stuff is all digital. This is Mom and Dad from this past Christmas."

Mom's hair is a bright red, but not the actual shade Jonathan remembers, and at the age she seems to be, it's probably dye. It's honestly hard to imagine her without red hair anyway. Dad's dark hair has gone all grey. They're clearly older, but they're still so familiar. Dad maybe looks a little tired, but they otherwise seem healthy and happy. "They're retired, which means Mom now has time to be on about six committees instead of only two or three, and Dad fixes all the lawnmowers in the neighborhood as a hobby," Katie says.

That sounds exactly like them, Mom always rushing from one thing to another, Dad tinkering in the garage and patiently listening while his friends or kids talk their way into solving their own problems.

Katie does a few things to the screen to make a new picture show up. "And this is Mary Ellen and her family from a few years ago."

"Wow," Jonathan says, and the detective makes a small sound of agreement. Mary Ellen has always been beautiful, and even in this picture where she's probably older than now-Katie, she's  _ gorgeous _ . She's rightly the focal point of the picture, a small but beautiful family surrounding her. "Graduated from Princeton with honors. She runs her own business now, event planning." The detective looks a little taken aback by that, and Katie just gives her a little shrug in return. "She married Tom — you knew Tom, right?" she asks Jonathan.

"Yeah," Jonathan says. He only remembers Mary Ellen just starting to get serious about Tommy, but he supposes he can see it. Tommy mostly just treats him with pity, but he doesn't object to Mary Ellen spending so much time helping him study. Much.

"Okay. And they had Missy and Billy," she adds, pointing the two children out. "Missy just had a baby last year, so Mary Ellen's a grandmother now."

That makes Jonathan's brain hurt.

"Billy," the detective repeats. "Short for William?" Which she apparently already knows is Jonathan's middle name.

"For Granddad Davis, yeah," Katie agrees.

"Mary Ellen's  _ so _ smart," Jonathan tells the detective, just in case the mention of Princeton wasn't enough. "No one ever tries to tell her girls can't do science." They wouldn't dare.

But, "Um, yeah, they did," Katie says. "She just took particular pleasure in wiping the floor with them academically."

"Who?" Jonathan demands, because this is the first he's  _ ever _ heard of it.

"Oh, settle down, you're not going to go beat them up. It was years and years ago, and she handled it herself. She wasn't going to ask her  _ little _ brothers to defend her honor, you know."

"We would've," Jonathan mutters, put out.

"Yes, I'm sure that's very sweet," Katie says, a bit condescending. "But sometimes it was teachers or advisors, and those are a completely different kind of battle. She fought them when she had to, to get enough science and math for what she wanted to do. Luckily she was more interested in the classics anyway."

"Why did you know when I didn't?" Jonathan presses.

"Because we shared a room, you dork. We talked. And you and Chris weren't the only ones helping me out when I got the same flack about sports, you know. We  _ bonded _ over all that nonsense," she says, wry.

"I should've known," Jonathan insists. "She's been helping me out  _ so much _ ."

Katie ruffles his hair. "I know. But I'm sure she's glad you never had to."

She shows a few more pictures of Mary Ellen over the years, some on the device and some in the albums. Every one shows just how beautiful Mary Ellen is, with her flawless features and rich auburn waves of hair. Katie sighs a few times, and Jonathan wishes he knew the right thing to say, but he knows just how much it  _ doesn't _ help to have someone offer weak compliments like  _ you're pretty too _ . All he can do is lean into her a little harder for a few seconds.

She eventually moves on to Chris, whose looks haven't held up quite as well as Mary Ellen's but are still striking, Dad's dark hair over Mom's bright blue eyes. He's grinning, of course, the curve of his mouth making the viewer feel included in something special.

The detective, meanwhile, is frowning slightly. "Have I met him?"

"Not that I know of," Katie says, sounding puzzled.

"Chris is like that," Jonathan explains. "Everybody loves him and everybody feels like they know him. He's friends with  _ everyone _ ."

"Chris has  _ charisma _ ," Katie says, her tone a little more dry. "Which he needed, because he was usually in trouble. He married Laura, of course, and these are their girls, Nina and Nancy. This is an older picture, to show them all together — Nancy's married now, and Nina's doing some kind of travel-the-world thing."

"Did he get the train job?" Jonathan asks.

"Pretty much the second he graduated, yeah," Katie confirms. Jonathan's glad, because Chris has always loved trains. He's never really cared that trains aren't very cool to anyone older than about ten, and he kind of  _ makes _ them cool just because he is.

They look through a few more pictures of Chris, and the detective suddenly stabs her finger at one. " _ There _ . I knew I'd seen that smile before.  _ You _ do that."

She means Jonathan, which doesn't make sense. He just looks at her in confusion.

"Sometimes you need to win someone over in a particular kind of way. Get them on your side, or maybe convince them you're on their side. Not other cops, but juries, or the occasional witness. You'll duck your head a little, and you'll give them that smile. It's not  _ quite _ flirting. It's … sort of like a visual version of saying  _ I know, right? _ And I've never been able to pinpoint exactly why, but it  _ works _ . When you choose to, you have a lot of charisma. Which makes me wonder why you don't usually choose to."

Jonathan  _ really _ doesn't have charisma. "I borrow sometimes," he says. "But it's like an accent. It's not really mine." She's right — if he could be like Chris, why in the world wouldn't he be?

"Considering how long I've heard you hold an accent for … I don't get it."

"Jon's really good at copying people," Katie says, "but for anything more than an accent, he doesn't hold it for very long. It seems pretty tiring, honestly."

Jonathan's not sure what she's talking about, because he doesn't know of anyone he's copied, other than accents or little things like Chris's smiles. Which is a shame, because it would be nice to be good at something, even if the something was not being himself.

Maybe especially.

"I've seen how you crash after working undercover, so yeah, maybe that's it," the detective says. She still seems a little unconvinced, but not enough to push it.

"You said you guys are trying to avoid prying," Katie says. "So I'm going to skip around so we end with you, Jon. That way you can call a stop if you feel like we're getting too personal, okay? And you won't have to worry that you're shorting anyone."

"Okay," Jonathan says. She's so great.

But she's starting to tense up as she pulls out one of the albums and finds a certain page. "This is Jamie," she informs the detective as she reveals a picture. But in the picture, Jamie is only in his mid-20s or so, with two small children and a baby and a woman who looks strangely familiar. "Is she one of the Stievers?" Jonathan asks.

"Maggie, yes. They started dating when Jamie was fifteen or sixteen, got married while he was still in art school."

"He got to go?" Jonathan asks, relieved. "And you got to go to college?"

"Yeah," she says, warming back up and giving him a quick squeeze. "Everything worked out." She turns back to the picture. "Brian, Joey, Carrie." Carrie is the baby. "I don't really have a lot of pictures of them."

Something is very wrong. "What's he doing now?" Jonathan asks carefully.

"Art director for a faith magazine," she answers, and where she was warm before, she's icy now.

"What's wrong?" Jonathan finally has to ask.

"He is my brother and I love him," she says woodenly. "But I do not  _ like _ him very much."

"Katie!" How could she  _ say _ that?

"If he wants family, he has to  _ be _ family, dammit." She makes herself take a breath. "I'm sorry. You just … have no idea how he's treated you."

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

"You — you said he knows? About me?"

"Yeah," Katie says, her voice a bit rough.

"But … you know what they call him. They beat him up  _ all the time _ and trash his sketchbooks and call him a fa—"

"I will ground you if you finish that word," Katie snaps. "Don't think I won't."

He doesn't really want to anyway. "But you know they call him that. I can defend myself, but he  _ can't _ . He hates that he needs me and Chris to protect him. If he knows … if he knows I'm all the stuff they call  _ him _ —"

Jamie would never forgive him. Not  _ ever _ .

"Stop making excuses for him," Katie says, about as angry as he's ever heard her. "You did enough of that the  _ first _ time, thank you very much. He was a grown-ass adult —" Jonathan twitches at that and even the detective raises an eyebrow "— when he found out. He  _ chose _ how he treated you."

"He's still our  _ brother _ —"

"He chose," she says, carefully precise, "how he treated me over you."

Jonathan stiffens. "He what."

No one messes with the girls.  _ No one _ messes with  _ Katie _ . He's not supposed to have a favorite, but he absolutely does.

" _ Why _ can't you find that on your own behalf?" she asks. "Why does it have to be on mine? Look, stand down, okay? You're not going to go beat him up, either." She sounds just a little bit wistful over that. "We've all cooled down, and you and I just don't talk to him much."

Why does Jonathan have to be the way he is? He never wanted to, and it messed up his whole family.

"Here," Katie says. "Mom always loved the annual photos, but Jamie played around a little." She turns the pages to show a few family portraits, but clearly drawn by Jamie rather than taken by a camera, with the drawings then turned into photos. There are a few different media, one in colored pencils, one amazing one in charcoals. There's also one that seems to be a painting. The kids are really little in all of them, Jamie still something less than thirty.

"You've mentioned you have an artist brother," the detective says, a little wary, "but I wasn't picturing  _ this _ . He's really good."

"Yeah," Jonathan says, trying not to sigh. If he could have had any of the talents in his family, this is the one he would've picked, even over Mary Ellen's academics. But he would never have wanted to take it away from Jamie, and it's not like he ever had anything to trade. He leans against Katie again for a moment. "Can we look at you now?"

Katie snaps that album shut. "Absolutely."

Katie has more pictures of herself, which makes sense. She's able to show them bits of nearly every year, high school and college, competitions and championships, win after win. Every now and then there's a guy in a picture with her, but the guy keeps changing, and she doesn't say anything about them. And in each picture she looks a little sadder, a little more lonely, behind the grins.

He's in a few of the pictures, too, clean-shaven in the early ones and then with that beard later. She looks a little happier in those. Older-him is harder to read, usually off to the side or just a little out-of-focus, but he seems happy to be with her.

And then a different guy shows up in the pictures, the one Jonathan saw for about half a minute this morning. Katie says his name is Dan. He looks sad, too, and he has a  _ little _ baby in several of them — Emma. The pictures get happier from there, sometimes just the two of them and sometimes all three, and then there are wedding photos when Emma looks about two years old.

Katie is  _ beautiful _ in her dress, and Emma is simply adorable as a ring-bearer. Older-him is in a few of the wedding pictures, off to the side or in the background again. He looks so happy for Katie. There's also a picture of him and Katie together, probably in one of those dance pairings they do at weddings, and another of him holding Emma, clearly trying to get cake frosting off her face without getting it on his own clothes. His wedding ring is just barely visible, but whoever he's married to doesn't seem to be there with him.

Soon after that are pictures of Katie pregnant, which makes him squirm a little, because she's his  _ kid sister _ . But he's soon distracted from that, because … something about her smile is making him uneasy. Older-him shows up a few more times, fake smile for the camera but attention on Katie, as her smile gets more and more  _ wrong _ .

And she's getting tense, next to him.

"Are you okay?" Jonathan finally asks, voice small. He's not sure whether he's asking about her in the pictures or now-her.

"Eventually," she says after a few seconds.

"You don't have to answer," the detective says, "but … PPD?"

Katie sighs. "Break the stigma, right? Perinatal, actually. From halfway through the first pregnancy all the way to about halfway through nursing after the second."

The detective makes a sympathetic sound and then notices Jonathan's confusion. "It's a kind of depression associated with pregnancy," she tells him.

He didn't know that such a thing existed. He thought pregnancy was always supposed to be either really happy or, well, puking. Though he dimly remembers Mom not being super-happy all the time when she was pregnant with Jamie, even though everyone talked like she must be. She mostly just seemed tired a lot, dealing with Chris starting kindergarten and Jonathan running around and Katie being little, while Mary Ellen helped but wasn't really old enough to do much.

"It didn't help that I was answering the risk-factor questions wrong," Katie says. "Apparently there actually is a family history of depression."

"That was a surprise?" the detective asks carefully.

"Dad's generation didn't really talk about that stuff," Katie says. "We knew Grandma Davis was distant, but her only daughter died in childhood. That kind of grief would mess anyone up. I never really connected it to the questions at the OB/GYN."

That's not what the detective meant, though.

She didn't really know their family, before today. She only knew Jonathan. And just from knowing him, she thought maybe it shouldn't have been a  _ surprise _ , exactly.

The detective glances at him and then carefully away again, as if she's realizing he heard that and she's not sure what to do about it. As if she wasn't really thinking when she said it, and maybe she wouldn't have said it if she'd remembered he would notice. But she also doesn't seem surprised that Katie  _ didn't _ notice.

"Anyway," Katie says, "I had a bunch of help." She rubs Jonathan's arm, distracting him from his thoughts. "Along with therapy, medication, and time." She makes eye contact with the detective and adds, a little more quietly, "And other measures."

The detective nods slightly and purposely changes the subject. "So what are their names?"

Katie shows still more pictures, not tons, but a selection as Emma and Sarah and Michael all get older. Jonathan's older self keeps showing up occasionally, again often in the background, but he looks happy.

"And that's my crew," she finishes. "Ready for you?"

He's not sure he is. But she wants to show him, and he might as well find things out for sure, instead of continuing to guess and probably getting stuff wrong. "Okay."


	17. Pithy Tag

"I reserve the right to bounce if I think things are getting too far into not-my-business land," Detective Smith says. "Not because I'm not interested. It's my job to be nosy, and I'm really good at that part of my job," she adds with a smile. "Just because you do deserve your privacy."

"I know," Jonathan says. "Thank you for being so careful about it."

Katie opens one of the albums to a picture of him in a cap and gown, but she immediately hesitates.

"It's okay," Jonathan tells her. "I already said my grades are terrible." It's so strange to see himself in a picture he doesn't remember, looking just a little older than he is now, ecstatic and astonished to be holding a diploma case.

"They weren't," she says. "You pulled them back up. Mary Ellen did help, but  _ you _ did the work."

Mary Ellen's help might be why she's in the picture with him, looking just as accomplished, but that's also weird, because Dad's on the other side of him, one hand on Jonathan's shoulder. "Mom?"

"She wanted to be there  _ so _ much," Katie says. "But … that spring, Granddad Shaughnessy had a bad fall and broke his hip. Aunt Bets helped as much as she could, but she's so much younger than Mom, so her kids were a lot younger than us, too. They needed her to be home. So Mom went up — came up here to take care of him. She really did want to be there for you, but she couldn't." She hugs Jonathan tighter.

"No, that's okay," Jonathan says. He never would have asked her to abandon her father for him. "Is Granddad — I mean, was —" Granddad would probably have to be in his nineties or something now, and Jonathan suspects he … isn't.

"He did get better. With  _ your _ help. You offered to come take her place so she could come home for me and Jamie. Mary Ellen insisted that you stick around long enough to graduate, but then the day after this —" she taps the picture "— you packed up your stuff and Dad drove you up." She laughs a little. "I was mad at you for leaving, but grateful that you were helping Mom come home, so I spent that morning alternating between hugging you and hitting you. Sorry about that."

"Oh. Sorry for —" But the detective looks a little concerned, though she's trying not to be obvious about it. "Not real hitting," he assures her. He knows what Katie meant. "Not to hurt." Doesn't she have any brothers or sisters?

The detective glances at Katie and back at him again and then relaxes, so he goes back to what he was telling Katie. "Sorry for leaving, but I couldn't have said no, if they asked me to help —"

"They didn't ask, Jon, you  _ offered _ . It was  _ your idea _ , and Dad was so grateful, you can't even imagine."

Jonathan ducks his head a little, embarrassed by his relief. Dad's been spending so much time with him, helping him get his head back on straight even though Jonathan can't really tell him anything. Taking him out on long walks, digging out that old camera to give him something to do when he just  _ can't _ study anymore.

"What was …" Jonathan swallows but makes himself continue. "If I hadn't come up here, what was I going to do?" Because he still feels that dread of  _ next year _ , even though it's long past in reality.

"The garage, maybe?" Katie says, sounding just as uncertain.

That sounds like the worst idea in the history of the  _ entire world _ .

The detective looks puzzled. "Hang on. So we've got …" She puts up her hand and taps her thumb. "The beautiful brainiac." She must mean Mary Ellen. She taps her pointer finger next and says, "The … I don't know, rakish charmer?" Katie huffs a little laugh, because yeah, that's Chris. The detective skips over to her last two fingers. "The star athlete, and the star artist." Then she jumps back to the middle finger, but she looks irritated as she realizes which finger she's assigned Jonathan and drops her hand. "And … what? No pithy tag for you?"

"Nothing," Jonathan mutters. It's the right word, because she'll hear it to mean that there's no particular phrase anyone uses for him, but it's actually what he  _ is _ .

He  _ hates _ the faint sigh he hears whenever he tries to get someone to pay attention to him. He doesn't blame anyone for it, though. What can they honestly say about him managing to pull off a B-plus on something when Mary Ellen aces every assignment? Why would anyone care if he was able to pass the ball to the scorer when his kid sister is scoring goals herself? Who's going to have any interest in some dumb picture he drew when his almost-five-year-younger  _ baby _ brother has been better since he was old enough to hold a crayon steady? Who's going to want to listen to him fumble through his lack of anything interesting to say when Chris can have everyone cracking up over his escapades? He can't even apologize and seek forgiveness for messing up and getting a failing grade on something, because that makes Mom start worrying about whether he'll need doctors and expensive medicines like Chris, so then he has to apologize for making her worry over nothing, too.

It took him a long time to figure it out, but it's easier — and hurts a lot less — not to bother anyone. To really look at what he's trying to show off and learn to see why it's not worth anyone's time. To accept that there are  _ reasons _ no one really notices him.

The silence is growing, though, and the detective is frowning at him a little. She's been acting like he deserves her attention this whole time, and he really doesn't want her to see that he doesn't.

It's  _ horrible _ of him to exploit her like that, but he already knows he's selfish.

_ And _ that's  _ how you grew up to be awful _ , his conscience whispers.

He wants to cover his ears to try to shut out that thought, but that won't help, because he's not really hearing anything. It would just make him look crazy. So he says, "The one who hates lima beans," because silly answers are at least distracting.

But the detective's eyes narrow, because she  _ knows _ him, so apparently she knows what it means when he does that.

But then … she doesn't push. "I guess  _ chameleon _ would've been too esoteric," she says instead. "Although … I guess if you'd known to say it, it probably wouldn't really have applied."

Great. Logic puzzles.

" _ Chameleon _ does fit, though," Katie says, not sounding too happy about that. "Anyway, you came up here, and —" she laughs "— I swear, Granddad must have started working on you the second he had you in his clutches, because the next thing I knew, you were taking the civil service exam."

Yeah, he suspected that he only would have taken it to make Granddad happy. "But … how did I …"

Katie sighs. "Yeah, I don't think you expected to pass it. But you didn't want to embarrass Granddad, so you — you studied  _ so hard _ , every free second you had. And then you ended up doing really well." She turns to a new picture, Jonathan in uniform at a ceremony, professionally blank. And opposite that picture a second one, him still in that uniform, dazed and disbelieving. Katie, about four or five years older than the fourteen he still feels like she's actually supposed to be, has her arms thrown around him in delight. Granddad is standing on the other side, leaning into a cane, transcendent with pride.

"Any immediate relatives killed in state service?" the detective asks Katie. At Katie's denial, she looks at Jonathan and says, "Not a minority, no military service, no family member credit — with the consent decree Boston had back then, you couldn't just have done  _ really well _ . I'm pretty sure you would have needed a perfect score. And even that wouldn't have been a guarantee."

"But …" Jonathan stares at her. "But I've never — my  _ entire life _ —"

"And yet," she says simply.

Jonathan looks down at the pictures again. He's never seriously considered the police, not really, so he's shocked at how fiercely he suddenly  _ wants this _ . Not just some scraped-up label to cover his lacks and shortcomings but a role, a function, a job his family can be proud of. A job  _ he _ can be proud of.

That must be why he tried, even knowing what he is. That desperate, selfish need to be  _ something _ .

He leans against Katie again, pride and shame all mixed together.

"I don't have a ton of pictures of you," Katie says, half-complaining. "You don't really stand still for them." She shows a few more random shots, another annual family picture. The him in the pictures, slowly growing older and away from Jonathan as he is right now, looks pretty happy but lonely.

Then there are a couple of pictures of Jonathan and a blond guy. In the first, winter by their clothes, older-him looks like he just took a drink of whatever he's holding and is appalled by it, while the other guy is starting to crack up. They're at some kind of gathering, other people in the edges of the picture, battered and mismatched furniture scattered around the room. They're not really aware of the camera yet, and they're standing a little too close together. The second picture is in warmer weather, older-Jonathan in that open-shirt-over-t-shirt combination and jeans, hands in pockets, mostly happy but uneasy about the camera, the blond guy just happy as his hands shape part of some kind of explanation.

"Okay, I've met him," the detective says.

"That's Andy," Katie says, sunlight-warm. Jonathan startles slightly, recognizing one of the four names from his note. "He's great. He helped us both out a lot. He was so, so good for you," she tells Jonathan, squeezing him a little again.

Jonathan has so many questions, but he doubts any of them are a good idea to voice, so he remains silent.

The next picture is him and the blond guy — Andy — and Katie, standing in front of what could be a vast window of some kind. Maybe an airport? Andy is in the middle, arms thrown around both of them, his smile tinged with a relief Jonathan can't quite figure out. Katie is on one side, hugging him back, smile fond and wistful. Older-Jonathan is on the other, hands in pockets again, tense, technically smiling for the camera but not remotely happy.

"This was when he moved out to California," Katie says. "You gave him a camera — just a basic one, not like your rig with the seventy-odd fiddly bits — and told him to take lots of pictures for us. So he grabbed someone and had them take this picture first."

So Jonathan managed to make a friend, someone outside the small group of guys he's known his whole life — maybe something else, but he shies away from that thought and repeats  _ friend _ to himself firmly — and the guy went and moved to the other side of the country. Figures.

A few more pictures, mostly him alone or with Katie or with their family, either no particular friends for that period or no one Katie decided to keep pictures of. Then him in a different uniform at a different ceremony, paired with a just-afterwards one again, this time with Granddad looking positively smug and Katie looking proud and his older self just looking bewildered.

"Some higher-up was leaning on you to take the detective exam," Katie explains before he can even ask. "And Granddad thought that was a great idea, of course. You said you were going to take it just to get them off your back. But you studied and worked just as hard, and you did great. And then when there was an opening … I think you kept pinching yourself," she says, mostly affectionate but a tiny bit sad.

Maybe he should try that now, because he's still not sure he believes it. At the same time, it's kind of reassuring in a bizarre way to see that his older self didn't really believe it, either, even while it was apparently happening.

There are fewer individual pictures after that — "You were so busy with work" — so it's mostly just family pictures again, Mom's cherished annual photo over the Thanksgiving weekend to go out with the Christmas cards. He's still clean-shaven in all of them. Katie's not exactly rushing through them.

Older-him looks pretty tired in one of those. And then, in the next …

He looks awful. He's smiling for the camera, of course, but he's  _ exhausted _ , and his eyes are so sad, like he can't even remember what being happy was like.

Jonathan compares it to the prior family photo and, yeah, something definitely happened between them.

"Was it here?" he asks. "Was … was this when everybody found out?"

"No," Katie says quietly. "This would've been about three months before that."

_ Before _ ?

He struggles with himself for several seconds before deciding. "What happened?" he asks finally.

Katie says nothing for several seconds. Then she says to the detective, "I'm pretty sure none of this is actually secret. Not above your clearance level, anyway."

The detective nods her acceptance.

"Granddad fell again," Katie says. The detective looks confused for just a second, clearly not expecting the story to start there. "There was  _ nothing _ you could have done, but you were kicking yourself for not being there anyway, and you were determined to look after him again. But he was older, so recovery was a lot harder, and … that kind of caregiving is a full-time job, more than, and you already  _ had _ one of those. You tried  _ so hard _ but you couldn't handle them both. So then you wanted to resign, and … Granddad never would have forgiven himself for being the end of your career, and I don't think he would have forgiven you. But he had to go behind your back to get Mom to come up here and give you a break."

Of course he hadn't been enough. Why would he ever have thought he could be?

"They talked it over and decided it would be best if he went into a facility. There were … a lot of fights, but they found a pretty good place down closer to home, and Granddad sold his house, and you moved in with … a friend."

She says  _ friend _ not like a euphemism but more like a toxic substance. But when he starts to draw in on himself, she hastily says, "No, don't — I don't mean it like that. Yes, the official story to the family was that you had a friend who would let you move in, and yes, you and I knew you were actually dating him." Jonathan glances uneasily at the detective, but this doesn't appear to be news to her. "That part would've been fine, except he was a  _ total jerk _ ."

Katie suddenly hugs him tightly. "I almost wish this  _ was _ a time-travel thing. If I was sending you back —" She shudders. "I wouldn't actually want to send you back through all that. But if I had to, I'd spend all the time I had trying to get you to understand that you don't have to  _ settle _ . You're allowed to have  _ standards _ . You don't have to — to be  _ grateful _ just because someone likes you."

That's easy for her to say. Everybody likes her. "But … you're  _ not _ telling me that?" Because he's not real?

"Well, I am, really. I'm just not going to spend every second trying to convince you, because I don't have to send you back, and you did figure it out, eventually. Mostly."

"Maybe," the detective mutters. She raises her hands as Katie starts to protest. "No, you're right. He'd have to be better about it now than he was. I mean, I met that guy once. He was an utter douche."

What a weird word to choose. Katie seems a little taken aback, too. "Um …"

"Am I wrong?" the detective asks.

"Not even a little bit," Katie concedes. "But he could be charming, when he wanted to be. I wasn't around enough to see past the dazzle. Wait — why did you —"

"A really unfortunately assigned dispatch," the detective says. "That was an interesting day."

Jonathan kind of thought Katie would loosen up the hug at some point, but she just pulls him in even tighter. "I'm so sorry I didn't see how he was treating you."

He eventually starts to squirm a little, but she just holds on, so he finally has to say, "Ow."

She finally lets up on the pressure. "Sorry, too hard?"

It wouldn't be, normally, and he doesn't want her to let go entirely. "No, just … I bruised my shoulder a little yesterday. It's okay now."

But she drops her hand from his right shoulder. "Sorry, I didn't — why didn't you —"

She doesn't have to let  _ go _ . "Not that one. Really, it's fine."

The detective is considering him so closely it's practically a glare. "The only time …" Then it becomes a full glare. "You hit the ground hard. Dammit, I  _ asked _ you —"

"It didn't really hurt then!" Jonathan protests. But Katie is pulling away entirely. "You asked about my head but I didn't hit that, I just landed on my shoulder, but it's just a bruise, only I think I slept on it funny. It just hurt a little from being squished. That's  _ all _ ." The way they're both looking at him … "Why won't you believe me?" he asks, his voice getting higher. He sounds like such a  _ baby _ .

"Because you have a long history of lying through your teeth about just how hurt you are," the detective tells him.

Older-him ruins  _ everything _ . "I'm not lying," Jonathan says weakly. He doesn't know how to convince them and he's humiliatingly close to tears again.

They start talking about making him take off his sweatshirt and t-shirt so they can check his shoulder, which makes him grab the sweatshirt fabric firmly. He does  _ not _ want to stand around in front of two adult women with  _ no shirt _ . The detective doesn't seem comfortable with the idea either. Katie is much more open to the plan, even if it means dragging him to another room so she can check alone, but she finally settles for poking around to figure out exactly  _ where _ he's bruised and then doing a quick range-of-motion check.

"It really doesn't hurt," Jonathan tells her. "Except a little when you poke it, because it's a bruise."

She finally gives up and sits back, but she's further away now. He tries shifting a little closer, but she shifts, too. "Careful. I don't want to make it worse."

It's stupid to feel like she's rejecting him. She just doesn't want to hurt him.

He tries crossing his arms, but that doesn't really help.

The detective is watching him, looking kind of worried. He tries to lower his arms so he looks less defensive, but that just makes him feel about ten times worse and he has to cross them again.

"Katie …" she says slowly. "Look, this may sound a little weird, but … assuming you're comfortable with it, maybe you should let him have the physical contact. Today was … kind of a day."

Jonathan isn't sure why she doesn't just say it was a bad day. Every day is "a day", and her tone says it bad anyway. But he wishes she hadn't said anything at all, because now Katie's suspicious. "What happened?"

He blushes with shame. "I kind of freaked out and messed up the test," he admits. He never thought the detective would tell on him like that.

"I think what he  _ meant _ to say was that I blew past the warning signs and walked him straight into a panic attack," the detective says. Oh. She's taking the blame again, even though she shouldn't. "I suspect touch hunger might be a common aftereffect of that kind of thing, especially considering how close he's been sticking to you, and … there are a few reasons why I shouldn't be the one to do anything about it."

"Oh, Jonny." Katie gathers him into a hug, very gently, and Jonathan sags into it with relief. He's never heard of "touch hunger", but it sounds just like what he feels. It sounds like the name for a feeling he's had for a very long time. "Why didn't you  _ say _ ?"

Because it makes him feel like a baby to ask her to hug him all the time. And really she's his kid sister. She shouldn't have to.

At least the detective made it sound like a temporary thing, instead of something else defective about him.

"You didn't finish," he says finally. "Telling me what happened."

Katie sighs. "You noticed that, did you?" She draws back but immediately puts her arm around him like before again, making sure there's no pressure on his shoulder. Their new positions are just different enough that he can't really see her face as well. "So. You were living with the jerk, or as I … well, no. We'll just call him Jerkface for now. You and Jerkface were arguing a lot, though I didn't really know about that until later. And when you came home for Thanksgiving, I thought something was wrong, but you kept spending time with everyone else, so I couldn't get you alone long enough to ask you about it. And then you came back up here, and I guess things got worse …"

She starts to squeeze him a little harder but then makes herself stop. "I guess you knew him through work —"

"Contractor, yeah," the detective says, apparently surprising Katie. And, wait, the detective had said this was all from before she'd known him. "His company had sold the department a software package. Jack apparently caught on to how it worked faster than most, so he got roped into the implementation team." She smiles a little at their curious looks. "They have an office inside the city limits. Guess where we got dispatched to? Like I said. Interesting day."

"That must have been  _ horrible _ ," Katie whispers. She rubs Jonathan's shoulder, even though he's not the one who was there for whatever it was. "So I guess he had access and … sorry. I actually don't know exactly  _ what _ happened."

"I don't either," the detective says. Sounding annoyed, she continues, "I can give you about nine distinct rumors, each with three or four variations. I mean, I could, but I'm not going to. Not one of them sounds particularly likely, or in several cases, even remotely possible. My  _ guess _ …" She waits for Jonathan to nod. "Is that you were both in the squad room and … 'Jerkface' simply decided to reveal your relationship in front of everyone in the room, in some way you couldn't just deny or play off."

"That would make sense," Katie says. "Because then he went and called everyone in the family and told them, too. Everyone except me, so I couldn't even try to head anything off."

Jonathan has to hide his face against Katie's shoulder for a few seconds. Everyone, all at once? That sounds so  _ awful _ . He doesn't know why he — how he ever could have — 

"I don't even  _ get _ it," Katie says once he's able to sit back again. "What was the point of all that? What did he think he'd get out of it? I know he was toxic, but …"

"Nuclear option," the detective says. "If I'm guessing. We see it sometimes. Blow up the support network. High risk, low chance of success, but sometimes it  _ does _ work." There's something she's not quite saying, or rather, something she's saying over Jonathan's head. He doesn't like not knowing what's going on, but he's not entirely sure he wants to understand this. "And even if it doesn't, some people are happy to burn everything down as long as they can hurt someone doing it."

Katie puts the album back in his lap and pages through the annual pictures again, past the one he'd thought was after, and on to the next, and oh. Yeah, if he'd seen this, he would have known better. In this one, everyone is smiling but no one is happy. Older-him is on one side, Katie between him and everyone else. He has the beard here, like he just stopped bothering with shaving at some point and decided not to start again, though at least he didn't let it get all raggedy. Or bothered to clean it up before this picture, anyway. He's barely managing to summon even a fake smile, and where his eyes looked sad in the prior picture, here they're just flat and empty.

Jamie, all the way on the other side of the picture, looks furious. Everyone else just looks uncomfortable.

There's one more family picture after that. Older-him has a better fake smile there, but that's the only real difference.

"We stopped doing the annual pictures around then," Katie says, closing the album. "It had been getting hard to get everyone together for them for a while, since the others had their own families by then. And that kind of picture was falling out of fashion a little anyway."

Jonathan's pretty sure it's not super in-fashion, even in the year he's from. She's trying not to say that he broke this, too.

"Anyway. You stayed with work — I don't think you were going to at first, but Andy came back to visit for a while, and I think you talked to your boss, and you stayed. Maybe just to make sure Fu— uhrrm.  _ Jerk _ face didn't win." The detective's mouth twitches at Katie's awkward correction. "You ended up finding a pretty nice apartment of your own, and I know things were rough for … kind of a long while, but you just kept your head down and kept going."

Her voice warms again. "But then you got a new partner." The detective gives him a casual salute. "And a little while after that you met a guy who  _ wasn't _ a selfish jerk. Things got better."

"But no pictures?" That's … odd.

"I have pictures," she says. "It's just … so, this WAM thing."

The detective's eyes flicker upwards in the tiniest eye-roll. Jonathan bites his lip so he won't laugh. She's right, it's a really dumb name.

"We've all been talking about what we'd do, or what we'd want to do, just in case. We didn't really think we'd  _ need _ to plan for it to happen to any of us, but we didn't want to be caught by surprise. And it's really good we did. But anyway … I think we all agreed we'd try to avoid talking much about spouses and current families, just because it's so  _ weird _ . If Dan came home but he was Emma's age, or if I did — that would get messy and just generally ... disturbing."

Jonathan nods. "My note said not to go home."

"Yeah. Because … Mark's a teacher." Oh, the other name from his note. "His students are pretty much exactly your age. He wouldn't want to make you feel rejected because the age gap makes it really weird for him, and I'd guess he wouldn't want to risk you being familiar enough that he'd still be attracted despite the gap, because that would be even more of a problem."

That makes sense. "I don't want … I don't think I should meet … um, him," Jonathan says. "I mean, while I'm like this. But … is it not okay to tell me  _ anything _ ?"

"No, it is. I just wanted to be really, really sure."

Jonathan considers, but he doesn't need long. "Yes, please." He understands this will probably be weird, but it's  _ all _ been weird, and he doesn't want the last thing he knows about his future self to be that dead-eyed expression.


	18. Mark

"Your wish is my command," Katie says. She seems happy about Jonathan's decision. She goes back to the album that has most of the pictures of Jonathan and opens it deeper than before.

"Again, you didn't really stand still for much," she says.

The first picture shows older-him standing in what looks like a living room. It must be evening or city-night, because there are pretty big windows in the background of the picture, but they aren't letting in enough light to overwhelm everything else. There are dozens of boxes everywhere. Older-him is standing over an open box, holding a couple of books in one hand but making a helpless sort of gesture with the other, because there's obviously nowhere to put them. A guy in a wheelchair is digging into another box. They're both mostly faced away from the camera.

"Well, that's a terrible first photograph," Katie says. She turns to the next page. "That's … better, anyway." The new one is probably the same night or day or whatever. Older-him has clearly been asked to sit down for the picture and looks ready to get up as soon as it's over. Otherwise he mostly just looks a little tired and a lot dazed. In pretty much every casual picture, he's either been in some kind of sweatshirt or sweater or else in that shirt-over-shirt combination, and this one's the second kind. He's a bit dusty and ruffled, which fits with the boxes. It's hard to tell exactly how old he is, but he's probably somewhere near thirty.

The other guy … He's got dark hair, not quite straight but not really long enough for another pattern to be evident, and expensive-looking glasses. He's about the same age, or maybe a couple of years younger. His wheelchair is positioned right next to where older-Jonathan is sitting on a couch. There's a lot going on in his expression. He looks  _ weary _ , and sort of resigned somehow, but also kind of hopeful.

"Dr. Mark Sanders," Katie says. "And he would immediately protest that it's not a social title because he's not a  _ medical _ doctor, but you like to emphasize it anyway."

It's a dumb rule. If someone's smart enough to have a doctorate, they should be able to  _ say _ so.

"He needed a place to stay and you had a spare room, so you offered. I'm pretty sure he didn't get around to mentioning just how much  _ stuff _ his friends were going to be bringing up from Philadelphia, because …" She turns back to the first picture. "You had some extra space, but not  _ that _ much."

She returns to the second picture.

"Things were kind of complicated, because … he had some bad experiences with police in the past, but you weren't like they had been. And then he started to like-like you, but he  _ really _ needed a place to stay and didn't want to mess that up. And you … you were  _ not _ -looking to meet anyone so hard you … actually managed to convince yourself he was straight. And he encouraged that at first, because bad experiences. And then you started to like-like him, because I'm not sure you really managed to fool yourself  _ that _ completely, but you didn't think you should do anything about it for a whole bunch of reasons. So. Messy."

"You said  _ I've _ been watching soap operas?" Jonathan mutters. It makes them both laugh, which is nice, but still. What a disaster.

Which probably means it's all completely true.

"And then I showed up and got you guys to start untangling yourselves," she says, more than a little smug. "This is from pretty soon after we sorted all that out."

That probably explains why older-him looks so dazed, then.

"Did he need police? Or was I just some random person who happened to be police?" Because he's pretty sure that if the guy needed him  _ as a policeman _ , he should have stayed just that.

"He was mugged," the detective says when Katie hesitates. Then she hesitates herself before adding, "Shoved into traffic in the scuffle. Right in front of us, when we stopped to pick up coffee on the way to interview someone on a different case. We caught the guy right away, so except for some follow-up interviews and paperwork, there really wasn't a case to worry about. There  _ are _ complications in that kind of situation, even for friendship, but you were careful. When I found out who you were seeing — which was most of a  _ year _ later — I pulled you aside to double-check."

She looks like that wasn't much fun, which only makes sense, because wouldn't she basically have had to interrogate him? About him dating a … a man? And whether he was being really unprofessional about it?

And  _ why _ doesn't either of them  _ mind _ about him  _ dating men _ ?

Katie said something about the things they believed "back then", meaning when he's from. She's kept talking about changing laws and other religions. It  _ has _ been thirty years.

But then, it's  _ only _ been thirty years. That doesn't really seem like long enough for  _ this _ to have changed.

"You guys took it  _ so slow _ ," Katie says. "I know why, but  _ still _ ."

She shows a few more pictures — older-Jonathan and Mark as guests at someone's crowded dinner table, Jonathan's head down to try to hide a smile as Mark discusses something with animation. Mark dozing on the couch, surrounded by books and papers, older-Jonathan caught in the middle of trying to ease a book from his lap. Katie and older-Jonathan and Mark all sitting on the couch, the image poorly framed like it was taken with a timer, Jonathan in the middle and starting to look a little closer to the happier guy in the pictures of Katie's kids. Mark on a tall stool in front of a stove in a cramped little kitchen, a pair of crutches leaning against the nearby angle between counter and fridge, using a spatula to stir something, older-Jonathan leaning casually against the other side of the fridge to chat with him.

Jonathan blinks at this last picture. "Oh. He made the soup."

Katie startles. "How did —"

"Hang on," the detective says, putting up a hand to stop her. She looks at Jonathan. "Why?" After a second, she clarifies, "I mean, why do you say that? Did you remember something from your older self?"

That makes a lot more sense than expecting him to answer  _ why did he make the soup? _ They probably want older-him back. "Oh, no, ma'am, sorry —"

But she doesn't seem disappointed, just more like she wanted to be sure. "Okay, then let's hear your reasoning."

"Oh. Just …" He wouldn't have said anything if he'd known he would have to justify it. He really didn't think there would be a  _ test _ .

He should have known he wouldn't be able to get away from all his schoolwork that easily.

But it's not like he doesn't have plenty of practice at this. He just has to hope he can think fast enough to line everything up right. He drops the Southie accent, because it doesn't fit with classwork. "The reasons I think he made the soup are, um, are as follows —" Does she take points off for stammering?

"Wait, wait, no." The detective's mouth twitches a little. "I'm not looking for a formal essay here. Just tell me why it makes sense to you."

Oh. It probably just doesn't make sense to anyone else, then. Well, he can still give her the pieces, and she can fix them. That seems a lot easier. He points to the picture and goes back to the Southie accent. He didn't say  _ too _ much without it, so maybe she didn't notice. "He likes cooking." That's obvious from everything in the man's expression and posture, the casual confidence of his grip on the spatula. "And he does it a lot. Or, I mean, someone there does." The little kitchen has a bunch of cooking containers and supplies in carefully organized stacks on about half of the already limited counter space, like there's just no more room in the cabinets.

"Katie said  _ there was _ stress-cooking happening last night, like it was someone else, not her. And she didn't make any soup … well, unless it was in the middle of the night? Except I don't think you would have left to do that and then come back," he says to Katie before looking back to the detective. "And besides, she said something about distribution, which wouldn't be — that sounds like it wasn't here.

"And you both like that soup, I mean, you  _ know _ you like that soup, so you've had it before, and you both know I like — I mean, you already knew older-me likes it, too. But you said you didn't really know Katie very well, but you both know me, so it makes more sense if you both … if it was … around me? And I don't think I would  _ ever _ like cooking, and I definitely didn't make it anyway. But — but he's — Katie wanted me to like it, and she wants me to like him, and if he's … married to someone who got zapped, he … he might be worried about his … his husband?"

The detective nods very slightly, confirming the term.

"And … if he's worried, he might want to do something he likes to feel better. And if he likes to cook, he … he might want to make something that — that … people who like to cook like to make stuff for people they …"

He trails off, fingers tangling tightly in the cuffs of the sweatshirt. Katie hugs him a little tighter.

The detective waits a few seconds to see if he'll continue before she speaks. "Okay. So why is it so hard for you to believe you're a detective?"

He glances up at her again, confused. "Ma'am?"

"You're right, and you've just assembled the reasons for why you concluded something we were both … not hiding from you, but somewhat avoiding telling you. That sort of thing is a huge part of the job."

"But — but that's just paying attention and — and guessing, it's not  _ evidence _ —"

"Most of it, no. But analyzing situations and motives is how you decide what evidence to gather. If this  _ were _ a case, you would now know who to interview, about what, and those statements  _ would _ be evidence. I'm not suggesting we head out and resume working our cases right this second; you're arguably four years shy of being legally eligible and you don't have the training for the parts that come next. Or the paperwork."

She says  _ paperwork _ with an amused exasperation, but Jonathan can't quite tell whether that's because cops always complain about it or because she knows he wouldn't like it.

"But … I know we teased you about the wedding thing," she continues, "but based on the limited knowledge you had, I can actually see how you ended up where you did. You have to be careful to make sure you're getting enough information to work from, but that's as much an experience thing as anything else. You do already have good instincts for synthesizing clues into a plausible theory of the case."

Katie fake-coughs to say, "Hypothesis."

The detective rolls her eyes at Katie. "Not you, too." She switches into a sort of sing-song. "Different  _ fie _ -ields … technical  _ jar _ -gon …"

"Mark teaches science," Katie tells Jonathan. "His degree is in chemistry  _ and _ he's a word-nerd. He has  _ opinions _ about misuse of the word  _ theory _ ."

But she sounds fond and the detective is smiling.

They both like Mark. They know him well enough to like the food he cooks and to tease. Which … maybe means they spend time with Mark? Which might mean Katie spends time with Jonathan for more than just him watching her kids,  _ and _ it might mean the detective spends time with him outside work.

That doesn't quite feel like  _ new _ information, but he still hasn't specifically registered it until now.

The detective has started giving him that thoughtful look again, but when she sees him looking, she claps her hands together. "So. Do you want me to —" But then she breaks off and gives him a played-up  _ I'm on to you _ look. "Nice try." Even though he didn't say  _ or _ do anything. " _ If _ you want me to leave, I won't mind, but I'll need you to say so. If you want me to stay, I also won't mind, and it would still help if you say so. You're not keeping me from anything I need to be doing," she adds before he can even try to think about that.

She boxing him in to make him tell her what  _ he _ wants and he doesn't  _ like _ it. Why can't she just let him know what she wants to do so he can be polite? He searches for words. "Is … is there anything I wouldn't want you here for?"

"The problem is, I wouldn't know." She looks to Katie.

"It's mostly just the wedding left. A few other shots, but no major events I haven't already covered, I think. At least that I would have pictures of."

"Well, since I was at the wedding, I think that means it won't be new to me."

"Oh. Okay." She said she likes knowing things. "You could stay, if you want? Or, wait, if you'd be bored —"

"Too late, and also, no, I wouldn't." She gives him a little smile, making sure he knows she's not mad.

Katie pages forward, not really lingering on the next few pictures, though she gives him enough time to get quick impressions, the older-him in each looking increasingly … content. A quiet sort of happiness.

Except for one picture, which — "Is that  _ me _ ?" He almost doesn't make the connection, because this time the guy in the photo has bleached hair that looks like it's probably supposed to be all stand-uppy but would need to be styled with gels or something first. His also-bleached facial hair is trimmed down to a vicious little point. He's either passed out or deeply asleep on the couch.

"Undercover assignment," the detective says. "You accepted a bunch of them when I was pregnant. This would've been just after that one wrapped up, before you shaved off that mess and used the scruffy phase of regrowing for another couple of assignments." She makes a face. "That case there was a nasty one."

"Mark was  _ so upset _ about your hair," Katie says. "He knew why you had to do it, but still. He complained for  _ ages _ . He was so relieved when it grew back the same and he could be sure you hadn't damaged it forever." She sounds like  _ she's _ rolling her eyes a little now.

"Relieved?" Jonathan would have thought he'd have been mad that the bleached hair doesn't make older-Jonathan look like a very nice person, but at least it's distinctive. Why would he care whether Jonathan's regular hair came back the same?

"You have pretty hair," Katie tells him.

Jonathan squirms at that. "I'm a  _ boy _ . And it's just brown." Dull, middling, boring, forgettable brown.

"It's 2014, boys are allowed to have pretty hair now. And yours is  _ mostly _ brown, but it has just a little bit of a reddish hue, especially in certain light conditions. It really is a pretty shade."

She must have looked to the detective to back her up, because the detective pointedly looks over at the television and starts making up a sort of fake song. "Not comment-ing on my work partner's phys-ical appear-ance .... e- _ special _ -ly while he's a mi-nor …"

"Fine, spoilsport," Katie grouses, while Jonathan ducks his head again to hide a grin. He likes the detective. She's fun. " _ Anyway _ . Mark is … very fond of your hair. I think you keep it a little long for him."

" _ Long _ ?" Everyone has such  _ short _ hair now, and older-him is definitely no exception.

Katie lifts her hand from his shoulder long enough to ruffle his hair. "Relatively speaking."

He smooths his hair — his  _ plain boring _ hair — back down again while she pages forward a little further to what must be the wedding they've been talking about.

Jonathan's family isn't that large, but it's a pretty average size, so he's been to a few weddings and he's seen a lot more in the neighborhood. He has a pretty good idea how they usually look.

This one doesn't look anything like that. It's  _ small _ , most obviously, only about thirty people in the pictures. It's  _ definitely _ not Catholic. There are no tuxes, just dark suits, and no — well, yeah, it makes sense that no one's in a big white wedding dress. There is a woman in the main pictures, but she seems to be  _ performing _ the ceremony, under a canopy, with Mark and older-Jonathan in front of her.

Three pictures are prominent. In the first, Mark is standing but leaning heavily into crutches, and the position of older-Jonathan's hands suggests he's trying not to hover and not entirely succeeding. In the second, older-Jonathan is supporting Mark by one arm as Mark … crushes something white with one foot? Oh, that breaking-glass thing — Jonathan's never been to a Jewish wedding, but he's heard a little about them, and this is probably something like that. And then in the third, they're ki—

Um.

Jonathan looks up at the television fixedly for a few seconds, but Katie squeezes him a little and whispers, "It's okay," so he makes himself look.

They're … they're kissing. Not anything all gross, like that time with Cousin Frankie when he was obviously doing something with his tongue, and all the adults had to rush up there and separate the newly married couple and Have Firm Words, and Jonathan very nearly slid right off the pew with embarrassment for everyone involved, and Chris honestly looked like he was taking notes or something while Mary Ellen covered Jamie's and Katie's eyes. This is absolutely nothing like that.

This is just a simple, plain kiss, and older-Jonathan's face is  _ bright red _ because he obviously knows  _ everyone _ is looking at him but — but he's doing it  _ anyway _ . And … and they both look really, really happy.

There are other pictures, some which make no sense — why would there be one of the two of them doing paperwork? — and some which seem perfectly normal for a small party, if maybe not an actual wedding or reception. There's a cake, but it's a pretty simple one instead of some tall construction, and it's decorated with rainbow patterns instead of being white or cream-colored.  There are a few pictures just of food, which is weird, except then Katie and the detective start talking about the food, and apparently Mark made everything except the cake himself. The way they're talking, it was really good, even though there doesn't seem to be any meat or even fish.

There aren't any kids around. Katie looks really pretty, with her now-husband along with her in some of the pictures. The detective is pretty, too, and Jonathan knows not to say anything about that, but she doesn't seem to be with anyone. Andy from the earlier pictures is there, with a guy Katie can't remember the name of. There are only two other people who Katie describes as being friends of Jonathan's — Alisa and Keith, a married couple who are apparently reporters.

Everyone else is apparently there for Mark, his friend from this and coworker from that and mentor from another thing, with a bunch more Katie doesn't remember specifics about, though Jonathan's brain kind of shuts down for a couple of seconds at, "Oh, and Becky, Mark's mom, you really lucked out with your mother-in-law."

It looks like Andy made some kind of a speech. So did one of Mark's closer friends from Philadelphia, a really pale guy with bright red hair, and the pictures of that are the only ones where Mark looks a little embarrassed, though he's smiling widely so it must still be okay.

There are pictures of older-Jonathan sharing tight, tight hugs with Katie and with Andy. There's another where he's with the detective, maintaining a careful distance but grinning as, by her expression, she's teasing him lightly. Everything else just looks like candid moments, older-Jonathan's cheeks in various shades of pink depending on how much attention is being paid to him in them.

Next to Katie's wedding, this looks so  _ tiny _ , so quiet.

But … Jonathan has been to weddings, and he's always happy for the people in them, but … he's never really actually liked the reception part. They're always so crowded and  _ noisy _ . This looks small and friendly and peaceful, and the older version of him looks just … quietly happy.

If he'd ever wanted to marry a woman, Mom would have insisted on a huge affair, invitations sent out to five degrees of cousins. Because weddings are  _ important _ . Jonathan does understand that.

But he likes this better, really.

… But he would have wanted his close family there, too, and Katie's the only one.

There aren't really any interesting pictures after that, and only a few more in that album at all. Katie reaches for the flat device, but Jonathan shakes his head. "That's okay." He mostly wanted to see his family, and his brain feels full.


	19. Fun and Games

Since the pictures of Jonathan were last, there isn't anything more for them to go over, which means he doesn't have any excuse to ask Detective Smith to stay longer. Katie sets all the albums aside and goes to get the detective's portion of soup. She and Jonathan then see her to the door.

"You two aren't going to start fighting as soon as I leave, right?" the detective asks. But she doesn't look like she thinks they will. "Do you want me to check back in tomorrow?"

Katie looks to Jonathan to answer.

"No, ma'am. You can go back to work. Thank you for looking after me." He hesitates and then adds, "I promise I'm not an  _ evil _ clone."

She grins. Good, she gets it. "Isn't that just what an evil clone would say, though?"

Oh, that's true. But ... "I can't be the evil one, though," he points out. "I'm not the one with a beard."

She laughs harder than that deserves. "Yeah, you're going to be okay. All right, I'll probably still text your sister here just to make sure everything's still fine, and she knows how to reach me if you need me." She gives him a steady look, making sure he remembers her card without talking about it. "But otherwise, I'll see you when you're back to being older than me." With that she heads out.

Katie closes the door and rubs his back. "I need to finish cleaning up the kitchen. Want to keep me company?"

Part of him does, but part doesn't. And even though he really needed Katie to touch him before, now it's starting to feel like too much. "Actually … there's a rosary … may I — may I borrow it? Just while I'm … like this?"

"Oh, of course." He doesn't like the surprise in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I should have made sure you knew you didn't need to ask."

Maybe that really is all it is. He was wrong about the wedding, after all, so maybe it really is something that simple. Or maybe older-him never needs to borrow because he really does still have one of his own. Somewhere.

Jonathan settles himself in the formal room and lets his fingers explore the shape of the rosary first, finding what makes this one distinct. He takes a moment to remind himself of the daily Mysteries and then, finally, lets himself sink into the comfort of the familiar prayers.

He has missed this  _ so much _ .

It's not about him, so he doesn't let himself think about that for the moment. He just makes his careful way around, making sure to give each prayer his full attention and intention. Each one is secure, time-tested, a sturdy step to bear his faith even when he might otherwise falter. Even if he makes mistakes, even if he fails  _ them _ , they will always be here for him to try again, never failing him. They will always be here to show him how to be better.

He's in no rush to finish, but he does eventually have to reach the end, make the final sign.

The rosary always gifts him with a sense of peace, and he holds it as long as he can. But as always, his more mundane thoughts eventually start crowding their way back in.

He feels like it's been  _ forever _ . It can't have been, really, and he only specifically  _ remembers _ not getting a chance at all yesterday. But he also can't remember the last time he  _ was _ able to do this when he can't even remember what day or  _ month _ it should be.

A huge part of the problem has to be that he doesn't have any kind of schedule here. Usually he's got morning chapel and the predictability of his classes, or else the usual weekend and summer routines at home. He  _ hates _ not ever being quite sure where he's supposed to be or what he's supposed to be doing. That's why  _ next year _ scares him so much, because he hasn't known what comes  _ after _ .

And honestly … he's afraid to think too much about his older self's faith.

There are things he hasn't been told by the people who are looking after him. Some of those are accidents, like the wedding. Some are carefully chosen decisions, open to negotiation, like details about the man he's … he's married to. And some are things he senses he doesn't want to know, like the thing the detective called a nuclear option.

… Which is also a weird term, because it sounded like it was just a casual metaphor. But the world still exists, so apparently things with the Soviets never really get — never got? Aren't, anyway, and apparently haven't been — too bad, to the point people can say that sort of thing and not really think about it.

But there are pieces, clues, about his older self's faith that he stubbornly does  _ not _ want to … to synthesize into a theory of any kind of case. He doesn't want to know. And it wouldn't help anything for him to know, anyway, because he still can't do anything to change it. All he can do is live his faith now.

And think  _ please don't be awful _ really hard and hope it sticks when he's older again.

He thinks he has time, so he prays the rosary again — not "making up for yesterday", because that's now how it works. Just because it comforts him.

Once he's done, he sits there for a bit, trying to decide what to do. There's a part of him that wants to just keep praying the rosary over and over until it's time for him to go to sleep, but there's a difference between seeking comfort from it and using it to hide from his life, and he tries not to be any more selfish than he can help. Katie keeps offering to find something for him to do, and he could probably go kick a ball in the backyard or something like that, just so he can move around.

But he's still sitting there, restless but aimless, when the front door opens-closes and feet storm halfway up the stairs before abruptly stopping and then clattering back down. Then they head towards the dining room, and then he hears voices from what's probably the kitchen.

A minute or two after that, Emma comes into the formal room from the family room. Seeing the rosary in his hands, she pauses and tilts her head silently, checking whether he's mid-prayer, careful not to interrupt.

He slips the rosary into his pocket — the opposite one from the detective's card, spiritual security on one side and secular on the other, both grounding him — and summons a smile for her. "Hi."

"Hi. Come play with me?"

It's something to do, and he wouldn't mind. She's nice. He stands. "Play what?"

She studies him for a few seconds, looking worried, and he's honestly getting  _ sick _ of people looking worried about him. Then she just takes his hand and leads him to the kitchen.

Katie is doing some kind of paperwork at the kitchen table. Maybe she's been trying to give him space. Emma asks, "Mom, can I show Uncle Jon a video game?"

" _ Which _ game?" Katie asks, sounding suspicious.

Emma considers for a few seconds. "Katamari?" she suggests finally. "It's nice."

Katie looks like that's not quite the word she would have chosen, but she just tells Emma to be sure Jonathan is actually having fun.

"Katamari" is  _ weird _ . It takes him a few minutes to really understand even the perspective, because he doesn't remember any of the games on Paul's Atari looking like this. And then it takes him more time to understand the controls, or what the point of the game even is.

But it's not about attacking monsters or shooting things. It's just about moving a sticky ball around to try to pick things up, and some of the things are bugs or animals or  _ people _ , and they just wave their arms around. They do run away sometimes or make scared noises, but they're still pretty cartoonish.

Though it is a  _ little _ disturbing that the balls get turned into stars when they're done.

But it's mostly just silly and strange, and  _ surreal _ , with a really odd sense of humor. There are little snippets of what Emma tells him is Japanese, and she doesn't know what some of them mean, but she explains others. He's soon able to get a decent score.

They take turns, so he's quickly able to see that it's actually just a puzzle game. The little pieces always start out in the same pattern, so the way to win is to learn the pattern and figure out the fastest way through it. It's more entertaining than the puzzles he's ever had to do for school, though, and there doesn't really seem to be a point to it besides knowing you figured it out.

Which is kind of fun. Especially when he beats Emma's score on one of the levels and she gets  _ determined _ to retaliate.

But then Sarah and Michael come home, and Sarah takes one look and tosses her huge backpack aside. It lands on the floor with a disturbingly heavy thump. She takes over the game and shows them both "how it's done". She must be why neither of them has been able to come anywhere near the stored high score for each level.

Michael takes a turn, but he's not very good at it. It's not a good game for four people to play, anyway — there's apparently a head-to-head mode, but no one likes it — so Michael declares, "DDR!", and the girls promptly agree. The three of them ask Katie — though it's more like a demand — and she looks like she's already got a headache simply from the  _ letters _ but just sighs, "Breakables," before heading outside herself.

The kids seem to have a routine for moving certain vases and glassware off of shelves and onto soft surfaces, which is soon explained once the game starts. It turns out to be a dancing game, and the bouncing and stomping around make the  _ whole room _ shake.

Jonathan holds back as long as he can, but Emma eventually pulls him forward to get him to play, too. He's not very good at it. But they aren't, either, and they're having as much fun with their mistakes as they are when they get things right.

And … it is fun, seeing how long they can match the steps, or seeing whether they can catch back up if they fall off track, or seeing how silly they can be once they've messed up. Jonathan pretty much just gets out of the way when he gets it wrong, but Emma is a total ham and throws in all sorts of silly dance moves. He tries doing that weird pointing thing from those old disco movies one time, just to see how she'll react, and she actually falls down from giggling so hard.

Michael's not perfect, but he's the best of them at it, and no one makes fun of him for being a boy who is good at dancing. Or, well, fake dancing. Jonathan finds himself wondering if that's just them or if maybe other people don't mind. He wonders if maybe someone like Jamie would be treated nicer now.

Everyone has been awfully nice to Jonathan this whole time.

Katie eventually comes back in and has them finish playing so she can get started on dinner. Apparently it's "Taco Tuesday", another reference he doesn't really understand but probably doesn't really need to. After dinner the kids have homework to do, so they all work together at the dining room table, occasionally getting help from Katie or just sharing complaints, though at one point Michael has to move to the formal room to concentrate on something he has to finish reading.

Once the younger two kids go to bed, neither Emma nor Jonathan is sleepy yet, so she cajoles him to watch a silly movie with her, a  _ vividly _ animated one about closet monsters. Katie half-watches with them while doing some paperwork or bills or something.

The movie has the image depth of something like claymation but the smoothness of live-action movies, and it has more vibrant colors than Jonathan can ever remember seeing in  _ anything _ . He half expects it to be full of references he can't understand, but there are only a couple and they don't seem to matter to the story. Everything just looks so much richer than the cartoons he's used to.

The movie itself isn't on a tape but on a disc. That's not too strange, because Paul has a laserdisc player, but the movie's disc is closer to the size of a CD. That's a little weird, but he actually would have thought things might have changed more in that many years. It does hold two copies of the movie, for some reason.

There's a second disk that includes a few mini-documentaries about how the movie was made, and Katie plays some of those when she can't answer Jonathan's questions. He doesn't really quite understand what any of it means, since it all seems to work out to something like "we put some art in a computer and it figured out a bunch of physics", but it's interesting anyway. There are apparently a couple of short films on that disk, too, but Katie just plays one of them and then declares it's bedtime.

Emma finally heads to bed. Katie lingers a bit longer just to make sure Jonathan doesn't need anything else before heading upstairs herself, and then Jonathan can't help being alone with his thoughts.

It ended up being a nice afternoon and evening after all. Jonathan tries to focus on that instead of how the day started. 

But now that he's alone, his brain starts worrying at the questions he's been pushing away all day.

He never wanted to like boys instead of girls. He had been getting worried about why he didn't like girls yet, but he hoped maybe he was a late bloomer, and then he hoped maybe it was just because there were other plans for him to fulfill.

He finally figured it out, though, and he hasn't known what to do since. He tries not to think about it, other than praying desperately for it to go away underneath everything else, and most of the time, classwork and having to behave around other people are enough to let him keep his mind on other things.

But that's not now, and he doesn't know  _ what _ to think.

He knows what the church tells him to think, what Father would tell him to think if he could ever bring himself to be more specific than  _ impure thoughts _ in confession. But the detective honestly doesn't care about it, and she and Katie have been talking about changing laws and other religions where it's okay.

And then there's Katie.

She's right here with him. He can see that she still loves him. He can see her utter conviction when she tells him there's nothing wrong with him. It's not as if she's left the faith or anything, either. She's obviously still faithful and she got married in the church and she has a beautiful family.

And the church does adjust its positions over time. Clergy didn't always have to be celibate, hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Services generally aren't in Latin anymore, haven't been since before Jonathan was born, and Granddad still complains about that change. So maybe they adjusted their position about this?

Katie talked like older-him  _ moved in _ with one guy, no marriage or anything, but she also said he needed a place to stay, and it could have just been mostly a roommate thing. Like how he apparently offered this Mark person a place to stay later, without meaning to start … "dating" him at the time. However "dating" a guy would even work.

He knows he's supposed to figure out how to change, and if he can't, he's expected to keep himself alone rather than trying to indulge. But he has no idea how to change something he didn't want in the first place, and he  _ can't _ be alone forever like that. He just can't.

And he asked Katie for help. She kept his secret, and she's been helping him try to find an answer, and she's had thirty more years to work on it, and now she's telling him that … it's okay to be what he is.

So maybe the church decided it was okay at least a little? Maybe he's allowed to be with someone as long as they're celibate or something, just to not be alone.

He's worried about why the rest of the family doesn't seem to agree, though. They're his  _ family _ , why wouldn't they want — but maybe it was just because it was a surprise and things got better. Katie said he got a civil marriage license in 2004 and that the wedding was before that, so it would have been more than ten years ago if it's 2014 now. So … so maybe they just weren't ready yet, back then. Katie hasn't really talked about their  _ now _ -family much, except for Jamie, and Jonathan knows exactly why Jamie can never forgive him.

He's pretty sure he would still want to do things properly, as much as he could, so maybe that's why older-him had a marriage ceremony in another faith. Katie did say he hadn't converted, so maybe it was just about doing things as close to the right way as he could, and Mark doing the same within his faith.

Jonathan is not entirely sure this is quite right. He hasn't actually heard anything specific about changes in the church's position. But … there's a  _ lot _ he hasn't heard, even when he's pleaded for answers, and he's never been any good with silence. Katie is  _ right here _ .

He can never deny her anything. She saved his life and kept his secret and loves him, and all she's asking is for him to … not hate what he is? Not hate himself for being what he is?

He's not sure he knows how, but he has to try, for her.

That's as close as he can get to getting his brain to leave it alone for now. He shifts again, trying to figure out how to fall asleep. That's still hard, though. He has no idea when he'll change back into his older self, and while it sounds like he won't be able to stop it no matter what, the idea that it will happen while he's sleeping makes him keep jerking back awake.

He finally settles on repeating  _ please don't be awful _ to himself over and over. Just in case.


	20. Tennis

Jonathan wakes the next morning to find himself on a couch rather than in his bed. After a few seconds he remembers, though.  _ Still here _ .

Water is running somewhere, probably Katie's husband taking his shower. Jonathan listens for a few seconds, but he doesn't hear anyone else moving around yet.

Apparently he's going to have to create his own schedule. Well, yesterday he was able to take a quick shower in the kids' bathroom, change, and come back downstairs with Katie before Mr. … huh. Has anyone said what their name is? Katie wouldn't be Davis anymore, but he doesn't remember anyone saying what she would be now. He never got around to asking.

But he just looked at pictures of their wedding yesterday. There were so many things to look at that he didn't really think about it, but there was an invitation in with the pictures. He makes himself concentrate on what it looked like.

And he does remember what it looked like, shape and colors and size, but he can't remember what it  _ said _ . He doesn't remember bothering to read it at all, too interested in the actual pictures.

Well, anyway. He thinks he knows about how long Katie's husband took yesterday, and he thinks that's just enough time for the rosary as long as he doesn't dawdle. So he can do that first thing, before things get busy and confusing, at least until he goes back to being older-him. When he might not —

When he'll have a  _ different schedule _ . And it's Wednesday which means Glorious and he needs to get started.

He does take an extra few seconds to get himself in the right frame of mind first.

Once he finishes, he heads to the kitchen. He should probably make sure the adults can find him easily. He'll need to take a shower, but he knows better than to get in the way of any existing bathroom schedule. It seems like there must be a second shower upstairs, maybe attached to — um, the adult bedroom,  _ and _ a half-bath downstairs, but they only have —  _ had _ — one shower back home for seven people. Anyone who used more than their fair share of time had to wait and go last for a week. Dad showered in the evening, after work, and Chris was so bad at being on time that he had to switch to evenings, too, but that left the mornings pretty busy.

He'd like to know their  _ name _ . The dining room table had lots of papers on it, generally just pushed aside whenever one of the kids needed homework space, but Jonathan doesn't feel right snooping around in them.

Then again … there's a phone on the kitchen wall, and there's a sort of message board next to the phone. And there are a few letters and bills tacked to that. It's not really snooping if he doesn't touch, right? If he just looks at stuff out in the open?

And one of the envelopes says  _ Fournier Household _ on it. That's pretty. He still likes  _ Davis _ better, of course, but  _ Fournier _ is a nice enough name for Katie.

He's not sure if there's anything he should do while he waits. Maybe he can start the coffee for them. He's never made it himself, but he was right here yesterday when Katie made coffee. He was in a rotten mood and not paying attention, but he might be able to figure it out.

He's trying to understand the attachment on the faucet — water comes out either way, so maybe it's some kind of filter? But for what? — when he hears someone enter the kitchen from the dining room. He turns to see Mr. Fournier startle, saying "Who —" before suddenly relaxing again.

"Sorry, I forgot," Mr. Fournier says. "Again. You're Jon, right?"

Close enough. "Yes, sir."

After the usual moment's pause to judge the situation, Mr. Fournier puts out his hand. Jonathan shakes it with relief. Finally, an interaction that  _ makes sense _ . But then he says, "I'm Dan," which is less right, since he's an adult and Jonathan isn't. "Katie said you wouldn't remember us."

Jonathan can only really say, "Yes, sir," again to that. "Sorry, I wanted to start the coffee for you, but I wasn't really sure how."

"Not for yourself?" He seems amused, because  _ every single person _ is amused by Jonathan for some reason, which would be nice if he was actually  _ trying _ to make them laugh. "You're drinking coffee by now, right?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Fournier is surprised by that, but he just goes ahead and makes the coffee, explaining the water filter and demonstrating the rest of the preparation. It does seem pretty easy, now that Jonathan knows where everything is and how much they like to use.

He's taller than Jonathan is, and that's honestly a relief. Jonathan has felt a little weird about it ever since he got taller than Mom, and now he's as tall as Dad. He always knew adults wouldn't automatically be taller just because they're older, but it still feels awkward.

Mostly because he doesn't really feel  _ ready _ to be an adult yet, and being taller than actual adults reminds him he doesn't have much longer.

Unfortunately, the height difference here, while not major, probably means Jonathan can't borrow clothes from Mr. Fournier without looking like a kid playing dress-up. He's wearing a casual button-down and pale trousers, and while it's not a suit or school uniform, it's at least better than sweats.

Maybe Jonathan can borrow anyway. When he was smaller, he didn't always fit right into Chris's handed-down clothes. He doesn't miss having to cuff his trousers until he or Mom could find time to hem them up temporarily, or having to cinch a belt tight and hope it's enough, but it wouldn't kill him. Katie will know if that would be okay or if it would be inappropriate somehow.

"Sorry I can't stay long," Mr. Fournier says. "Work is really busy right now. Is everything going all right? You have everything you need?"

"Yes, sir, Katie and Detective Smith have been really nice." Should he be calling her Mrs. Fournier? But he needs to remember she's his sister, because she's the  _ only familiar thing _ here. And she didn't like it when he accidentally called her  _ ma'am _ . Still, that doesn't mean he can't use her proper name when talking to other people, the way he does for the detective. But it would be messy to go back and try to fix it now. "And Emma explained about your work."

Mr. Fournier immediately smiles a bit at the mention of Emma, quietly adoring, and Jonathan likes him a little for that. "Good, I'm glad." He's quiet for a minute, waiting for the coffee, but then he says, "Sorry, this is a little weird for me."

For  _ him _ ? "Sir?"

"When I first got to know you, it was as a policeman who wanted to know my intentions towards his little sister," Mr. Fournier says. It's a topic Jonathan has been trying not to think about. "That … set a tone. I'm not really used to the yes-sir, no-sir treatment."

Jonathan really isn't sure what to say. "Sorry, sir?" he ventures finally, unsure which version of himself he's even apologizing for. Mr. Fournier just chuckles a little.

Once the carafe is full, he pours a bunch of the coffee into a flask, or maybe it's a Thermos. "Katie should be down in a minute," he tells Jonathan. "And just so you don't worry, I promise my intentions are honorable." He smiles, awkward-polite-friendly, and heads out of the kitchen while Jonathan's brain works overtime  _ not thinking about it _ . The kids are soon thundering down the stairs to say their goodbyes.

The kids then move on into the kitchen, followed by Katie. Emma spots Jonathan and leads him over to stand between the kitchen table and the wall again, which at least ensures he's out from underfoot. Chattering away with Katie about something to do with one of her classes, she opens a cabinet and starts to take out what looks like some kind of bowl, but then she changes her mind and goes to a different cabinet to get a cup. She pours some coffee into it and then gives the cup of coffee to Jonathan before going back into the swirl of breakfast preparations.

_ Everyone _ just assumes he wants coffee. He doesn't particularly, but he figures it probably can't hurt, so he sips at it while he tries to figure out if there's anything he should be doing.

He still doesn't actually care about the drink itself, but he soon finds that just holding the cup is actually pretty nice. It gives him something to do with his hands, and it makes him look like he has a reason to be there besides just standing around uselessly. And he obviously can't literally hide behind the cup, but he can hide his expression behind it a little, and just by being in front of him, it would draw eyes slightly away from him anyway. Holding it also gives him an excuse for having one or both arms up and in front of him, so he feels a little more … secure or something, without having to cross his arms and look all defensive.

Maybe older-him actually did figure something out here.

Breakfast is a little rushed but nice enough, when he's not scaring his sister and scowling at her children. There's a bunch of running around to gather assignments and supplies, and Jonathan again just tries to stay out of the way.

Before she leaves, Emma comes up to Jonathan to tell him, "In case you change back, it was really nice to meet you," and then she hugs him. Sarah and Michael look a little awkward, and Jonathan doesn't blame them. He feels the same. Katie was smart to suggest they treat him like a cousin they don't know, because they actually feel a little like that to him. He likes them fine but he doesn't really know them. Emma just seems to love him anyway, and that confuses him.

The younger two have a little longer to get ready before they have to leave. Katie goes with them to the bus stop, which is weird but they all act like it's normal. She offers that Jonathan can go along, but when he asks to wait at the house for her, she only hesitates for a moment before agreeing.

He straightens up the kitchen as much as he can, but the kids already put some things away, and there are other things he's not quite sure what to do with so he doesn't get it all the way done before Katie gets back. She shakes her head but thanks him and swiftly gets everything put away properly.

"So I was thinking," she says as she wipes down the counter. "I kept a couple of classes today because they're complicated to cancel. I can if you really need me to, or you can stay here while I take care of them, or you could come keep me company."

She wants the last one. "I can go with you," he says. It sounds better than the other options anyway. "Do I have time for a shower first?"

"Most of an hour, yeah. Though you might want to wait until after." She gives him a slightly evil grin. "I plan to run you around."

That sounds fantastic. "I'd still like to, though," he says. "Or — the hot water —"

"Is not a problem. Our tank is bigger than the one we had back home. You can use as much as you want. I ran the sweats and t-shirt you changed out of yesterday through the laundry, if you want those again, or there might be something else in your bag —"

"Actually … would it be … could I maybe borrow some of your … some of Mr. Fournier's clothes? Real pants, maybe?"

She looks confused for a second, but apparently she's just not used to him calling her husband that. Then she eyes him the same way Mom does when figuring out clothes. "You could," she says slowly. "They'd be too long. You've already got as much height as you're going to, I think, or within about half an inch, but Dan's got a few inches on you. And you haven't filled out at all yet, so —"

She winces.

"Actually, I think you'd better not. The other people who have been through this … going by how long they spent younger, you've  _ probably _ got somewhere between … six hours and … maybe another day and a half or so? And it sounds like it ends pretty suddenly — one moment you're this age, and then the next you're back to being older, but in the same clothes."

Jonathan pictures what that would be like with a cinched-in belt and winces himself. The belt that first day wasn't really  _ that _ loose on him, so it probably wouldn't be actually dangerous or anything in the other direction, but .. it still probably wouldn't feel very nice.

"You're lucky you ended up this age," she adds. "It … sounds like it didn't really go very well for the ones who were made younger. But that's why you just packed sweats and t-shirts, I think."

And the detective said the youngest she knew of was about eleven, but they weren't positive that was really the lower limit, and that was why older-him included little clothes, just in case. Suddenly turning into an adult in some of those would probably look like something out of that old show about the guy who turned into a green monster.

Older-him isn't really a slob. He was wearing a reasonable suit at work, with an actually pretty nice tie. In the pictures, he wore casual clothes a lot, but not really messy ones. All these baggy sweats were just meant to make sure Jonathan is comfortable and older-him won't look ridiculous when he comes back. But Jonathan  _ misses _ real clothes.

Katie makes herself smile. "Besides, you wouldn't want to be running around a court in khakis anyway."

The old t-shirt and sweats do seem like the best option, so Katie gets those for him. When he asks, she also digs up a disposable razor and some of Dan's shaving cream.

Jonathan hasn't really been thinking about it, because it's easier to miss when it's just stuff already around the house, but all this stuff costs money, too. And all the food he's been eating. He must owe Katie a lot by now. His older self had  _ better _ pay her back.

Showering goes quickly enough, and Katie was right that there's still plenty of hot water.

He supposes he doesn't actually need to shave. He doesn't have school or church, and after only a couple of days there isn't much to deal with, and he  _ won't exist _ in probably a day or two. But he  _ hates _ feeling scruffy.

He studies his face in the mirror for a few seconds first, trying to see older-him in it, or maybe trying not to. The general shape is pretty much the same, and so are the boring-brown eyes and hair, though Jonathan's hair is longer and … fuller, somehow. He scowls a little, because it's not like he has a weak jawline or anything, but the beard probably  _ would _ make the overall shape look a little better.

On older-him. Jonathan doesn't want it. Well, okay, he couldn't possibly  _ have _ it anyway, because it's not like he could grow it out in a few hours, but even if he could, he'd rather be clean-shaven. It feels like a way to say he's here, even for only however many hours he has left.

It's probably not really that he won't exist. If older-him will remember, maybe that sort of counts? But it doesn't really feel that way. It feels like he'll just be erased, or like maybe he isn't really even —

He wants to shave.

The handle of the razor is strangely curvy, and there's an extra blade in the head, and the head moves in ways he does  _ not _ expect. He stops and then makes himself go very, very carefully. Katie will  _ not _ be happy if he cuts himself.

Once he's done he rinses and dries the razor carefully. He feels  _ much _ better put-together, even in baggy sweats.

Once Katie sees he's ready, she finishes loading up her minivan, but then she frowns down at his feet. She goes back into the garage and digs around in a storage bin for a while.

"Try these on," she says finally, holding out a bulky pair of sneakers. "They probably won't fit quite right, but I think they'll still be safer on the court than those."

They're a little on the small side, though nothing he can't deal with for a few hours. They're  _ distracting _ , though, because they feel so different. He's starting to see why the detective was talking about things like instep and pronation and complicated stuff like that, because these shoes are clearly  _ designed _ to do … something. They give a little more than he expects and they hug the bottoms of his feet in weird ways and he is going to fall flat on his face.

Of all the things, why did the future have to go and change how  _ shoes _ work?

Seeing his expression, Katie starts to say he doesn't have to wear them, but there's a reason she had him try. So he walks the length of the driveway and back a couple of times, then jogs it slowly a few more, just making sure he can actually move around without tripping over his own feet.

He'll manage.

Katie drives them to a park with a couple of tennis courts. It really is too warm for the sweatshirt if he's going to be moving around, so he makes himself take it off and leave it on the front seat of the minivan. He doesn't really like the feeling of just the t-shirt, which makes him keep pulling his arms in towards his body, but he knows that makes him look more awkward and draws attention, so he has to keep fighting to relax again.

Katie checks that his range of motion is still fine — he makes himself put up with it, because he knows she means well — and then hands over a racket and ball. "Let's see your serve."

He's never been great at this, but he knows how, so he serves a few times, and then Katie gently lobs the ball to him several times to check his return. She's soon grinning with satisfaction. " _ You _ are not rusty," she says finally.

Oh, right, she kept talking about how busy older-him is. Without a lot of practice, he's probably terrible at this now. Ha. It's not much, but at least Jonathan has this.

They face off while they wait for Katie's class to arrive, which it turns out they're not scheduled to for almost another hour. Katie purposely made time for this. She's going super easy on him — she has to or the game would last about ten seconds — but Jonathan can see that she moves differently than he's used to. He watches for a bit as they play, figuring out exactly what's different.

And then he changes how he's playing.

He's not nearly good enough to do what he really wants to. On the other hand, that makes it less obvious what he's doing, which isn't a bad trade-off. It takes her  _ forever _ to figure it out.

She calls a pause after winning a match in which his returns must have been especially mystifying. "What was  _ that _ ?" she pants, and he can't hold back his smirk. He's not short of breath at all, and that's not just because she's going so easy.

It's the smirk that tips her off. She finally puts together then that he's been sacrificing  _ good _ plays for ones that make her run all over the place. Because she's a lot older now and his youth is the only advantage he has here.

And he's her big brother. It's his  _ job _ to mess with her.

"Oh, you little …" she says, grin growing larger. "It is  _ on _ ."

She proceeds to wipe the court with him, and she goes out of her way to make him run around in the process. She  _ is _ good enough to place the ball pretty much exactly where she wants, just close enough that he can't justify not trying and far enough he has to scramble.

He loses, of course. That was never even a question, and he doesn't mind. He likes when she shows off. And since he's nowhere near as good as she is and still isn't really used to these shoes, as hard as she tries, she can't keep him in play long enough to get him  _ really _ winded, so he kind of wins that part of it anyway.


	21. Sixth Wheel

Katie's class trickles in, so Jonathan escapes her full revenge. There are six adults, four women and two men, ranging from one in her late twenties to one in his sixties or seventies. Katie briefly introduces Jonathan as her temporary assistant and starts teaching them  _ really _ basic stuff.

He helps out with a few little things, correcting grips and gently tossing balls so they can be inconsistently swatted back to him, but he spends most of his time running down balls that go off into corners or adjacent courts or, one time, over the fence completely. It's a little boring, but he doesn't mind too much. It keeps him busy.

Once that class is over, Katie lets him change back into his other shoes. He almost puts the sweatshirt back on, but if he gets it all sweaty now he'll need to find something else to wear later and he doesn't really  _ need _ it.

They head back to Katie's house for lunch. He's relieved that it's just peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, with normal grape jelly, but he's surprised to be a little disappointed, too. He was kind of wondering what other weird things they might expect him to eat.

And … he did wonder a little if Mark would send anything else over, or maybe sent over more than the soup earlier.

But whether he did or not, Katie wouldn't be sure if Jonathan would like it, so it makes sense that she's sticking with something she can be sure he'll eat. It wouldn't make sense to give him food someone made specially for him only to have him waste it by not liking it.

Katie has to change out her equipment for her next class, so Jonathan helps her unload the minivan. He's trying to pay a little more attention to what he's seeing, that  _ awareness _ the detective talked about, and something in the garage catches his eye. Behind all the extra household stuff and bikes and rubbish bins, tucked into a corner, he thinks he might see a folded-up wheelchair.

It might mean nothing. It might be left over from something that happened in Katie's family, or maybe it's Granddad's from after one of his falls, some strange kind of family heirloom now. He doesn't really want to call attention to it, and he can't make out anything distinctive. But … in the earlier pictures, Mark was in a wheelchair, and he was using crutches in all of the later ones. And it's not really a clear line, but it fits in with some other pieces Jonathan has noticed. 

His older self has extra clothes in different places, even though he probably doesn't need to change his clothes  _ that _ often. He apparently used to babysit a lot, for both Katie and the detective, but their kids are all older now, so he wouldn't still need to store changes of clothes in both places anymore just for that. He probably has a work locker, but Jonathan knows exactly what happens to the stuff in the lockers of people who are disliked at school, and he suspects a police station isn't really that much different, so older-him might keep stuff with people he trusts instead. And then older-him added extra clothes in different sizes, some with the price tags still on them so they can be returned later, instead of assuming someone else would just take care of everything if he got zapped.

The detective apparently wanted older-him to throw away his old shoes, so he let her think he had, but he kept them around just in case. And it's good he did, because it would be silly to buy extra pairs of these fancy future shoes — they've got to be super expensive, considering the prices on just the sweats — just for Jonathan to spend a few days running around in. So older-him keeps useful stuff just in case, even if he has to hide it a little.

And older-him kind of hovered a little around Mark in the pictures, even though he was trying not to, and Katie said  _ Granddad fell again _ . Older-him probably doesn't trust that Mark won't ever need the wheelchair anymore. It's  _ here _ , so maybe Mark didn't want it around, so older-him probably asked Katie if he could store it here. Just in case.

And the detective teased him about how much older-him tries to prepare for things. She wasn't mad or anything, but she was used to it and maybe thought it was a little silly.

Older-him worries about stuff. Jonathan isn't sure how to feel about that. It sounds a little too familiar, and it sounds like maybe being an adult isn't much easier than being a kid who can't really control anything.

Jonathan has never really thought being an adult would be  _ easy _ , but … well, he kind of hoped it would at least be  _ different _ .

Katie isn't putting everything back, it turns out. She's just exchanging a bunch of the equipment for smaller things.  _ Really _ smaller. That's explained when they drive to a private sports club and meet her next class, which is a bunch of kids who only look four or five. As with the adults, they mostly have their own basic gear, but Katie brings extra stuff for demonstration and to have spares around, which is handy when it turns out that two of the kids somehow don't even have their rackets with them.

Jonathan can't even imagine what would have happened if he had ever shown up to a tennis lesson without a racket, but Katie hardly even blinks when she hands over the loaners.

Before she starts the class, she frowns at one of the parents and then pulls Jonathan aside. "I don't usually get to be the one to tell  _ you _ about legal stuff, but you wouldn't know this yet. People can't record conversations in this state without letting everyone involved know, but pictures and video without sound aren't really limited at all."

She's looking at that same parent while she talks, and that woman is holding her phone the way the detective showed Jonathan on that first day, like she's taking pictures of her kid. The detective didn't mention video, but … well, apparently phones can do  _ everything else _ now, so why not?

"I'll tell them not to take anything with you in frame," Katie tells him, "and they know they're supposed to be careful about anyone who isn't their own child, but I can't watch them every second. If you'd rather sit this out —"

"No, it's okay," Jonathan tells her. "I don't mind if they do."

She just looks confused.

"I don't really like  _ posing _ for pictures because that's kinda fake," Jonathan tells her. "But it's okay if I just end up in a picture or a … a home video, I guess. Unless … do — do we have to pretend I'm not here at all?" He can't be upset about that, he's really not supposed to be here —

"No," she says quickly. "No, it's not that, I promise. I just want to be sure you're okay with it. Are you sure? Are you really, really sure?"

He just nods. She looks closely at him for a few more seconds, making certain, and then gives his arm a quick squeeze before turning back to her class.

She calls for everyone's attention. "Everyone, this is Jon. He's helping out today. He knows all the rules, so anything he says goes, just like it came from me. Parents, remember the social-media rules: no public posting of anything without the permission of  _ everyone _ in your pictures or video. Email me about anything that has Jon in it. Got it?  _ Do not cross me on this _ ." She glares several specific parents down until she gets nods. Then she pulls one parent aside and has a very quiet but apparently much nicer conversation, and then she starts her class.

The kids are a  _ lot _ more work, even with their parents on hand, and Jonathan is kept super busy helping out — not just chasing down balls again, though there's a ton of that, but keeping the kids focused on Katie's lesson and stopping one kid from braining another with a racket and pulling another kid off to the side for a break before he throws a complete tantrum.

They need a lot more supervision than the adults did — of course they do, they're little — and Jonathan starts to feel guilty that he likes this better. But the detective said he was good at babysitting and she didn't mock him for it, so … maybe it really is okay now for boys to like taking care of kids.

He assumed before that his older self must have kids by now. Jonathan is  _ not _ thinking about that so hard he worries he might sprain something in his brain. Luckily, little kids are a great distraction. He doesn't have much time to think about anything at all.

Time flies by and they're soon packing up again. Jonathan loads equipment while Katie has a few last conversations with parents, and then they head back to her house. Jonathan has to dig a new t-shirt and the last pair of sweatpants that look like they'll fit from the duffel bag. There are plenty of pairs of socks and boxers in the bag, at least. After a quick shower to wash away all the exercise, he's back in sweats and ready to …

… well, do nothing.

Emma is both disappointed and pleased to see him when she gets home. She considers the way he's repacking the duffel bag just for something out-of-the-way to do. "Want to play a video game?"

He sits back from the bag. "What do you usually do after school?"

"Oh. Visit my friends, or start homework if I have lots, or read Tumblr, or play one-on-one with Mikey, or go to the library …" She trails off, looking closely at him, trying to figure him out. Then she sits down next to him. "You're not in the way, I promise."

Talking with her is kind of scary, but at least it's faster than conversations with most people are. "I am, though. You were going to do something else the first day I was here, but you couldn't because your mom needed you to bring the other kids home."

"I was just gonna go look at Jordan's new lizard. I can do that anytime. I can do all that stuff anytime. But I can't play with you anytime because you'll be gone soon."

"You'll have your real uncle back then, though. And you miss him."

"Well, yeah, but I like you, too!" she protests.

He wants to convince her that she doesn't have to keep searching for things to keep him busy, but she's starting to look stubborn, and she's starting to look upset under that. He doesn't want her to think he's rejecting her or anything.

He's already made his sister cry. He can't stand to do the same to Emma.

He sighs and lets it go for now. " _ What _ game?" he asks, copying Katie's question from yesterday. "But not the dancing one. And only if your mom says it's okay."

Emma brightens, throwing her arms around him in a brief hug before running off to find Katie.

He is in the way. Detective Smith had to skip a ton of her real work over the past couple of days just to look after him. Katie had to cancel a bunch of lessons, which probably means she's losing a lot of money. Emma  _ missed a class _ because of him, and she keeps worrying about finding things for him to do. If he was really here, he'd have classes and homework of his own, maybe friends to go visit, some real  _ life _ . But he's not.

And they want older-him back. Jonathan honestly doesn't really see  _ why _ , except for not having to look after him the same way, but they do.

He doesn't really want to leave. He thinks he could be happy here, even if he did have to go to school. Even if he had to go to a bunch of extra classes to understand how everything works now. Everyone is  _ so nice _ .

But this isn't his life. He's not really Detective Smith's partner, or this Katie's brother, or anyone's husband. A few days is one thing, but they wouldn't be able to keep treating him the same for much longer. If he stayed, they would have to pull back and move on, and they and Katie's kids are all he has here.

He's in the way of everyone. Even his own older self.

He tries thinking,  _ You can come back, if you want _ . If this is all due to "magic", maybe he just has to say the right thing? Maybe he just has to accept he's not real to break the spell? He even tries whispering it, in case it has to be out loud.

But he's still sitting there, waiting for some mysterious effect to overtake him, when Emma comes back and introduces him to another bizarre game, this one called "Pikmin".

They play that for a while, and then they switch to a weird racing game when the younger two kids come home and want to join in. That game is abruptly abandoned when Mr. Fournier arrives shortly before dinner, his project apparently done or at least his part of it ended, to the delight of  _ everyone _ . He looks exhausted but satisfied.

Jonathan hangs back, straightening up as much as he can and staying out of the way.

Dinner is another simple meal, just spaghetti, conversations flying rapidly in all directions. Katie tries to draw Jonathan in a few times, describing her lessons and his role in them, but as usual, he doesn't have much to say that interests anyone and he's able to slip back out of their notice pretty quickly.

He'd rather be interesting — who wouldn't? — but he never has been, so this is safer, listening to their stories and keeping them going with occasional questions. Maybe he gets better about that when he's older. Maybe that's why they all want older-him back, because he figured out how to have  _ something _ to talk about.

After dinner they all play a card game. It's complicated, with a special deck like Uno but also dice and tokens and all sorts of complicated rules. Emma ends up teaming up with Jonathan just to keep the game moving, since even Michael already understands and he's barely more than half Jonathan's age. Playing a game like this is apparently a family tradition for the "closing" of a "software pack" at Mr. Fournier's work.

They don't play as long as they probably usually would, though, because the kids have homework they didn't do while they were busy entertaining Jonathan. Katie is cleaning up the kitchen but looks like she'd like to be alone with her husband while she does it, so Jonathan sits with the kids in the dining room. He'd rather just slip off to the family room and leave them alone, but there's not really anything for him to do there and he doesn't want to worry anyone if they do notice he's missing.

He misses home. He wishes he could stay here.

But what he wants doesn't really matter, just like always.

The younger kids eventually finish up their homework and head for bed. Emma takes longer, because she's apparently been putting a few things off, but she doesn't want to head to bed when she's done. She seems determined to let Jonathan know she likes him.

She talks him into another movie, this one about a little robot called WALL-E, at the end of the world. This is for  _ kids _ ?

It's just so  _ lonely _ at the start, and then  _ again _ when the EVE robot stops responding, and Jonathan kind of hates it for that. Emma seems to be having second thoughts, snuggling up against him and reassuring him it gets better. Eventually it starts to, and at least the space artwork is nice to look at. And then Emma stops the movie anyway.

"I thought something all future-y might be fun, but it just gets kinda silly after this, and they get stuff like sound and gravity in space wrong, and the ending doesn't make sense anyway. Wanna watch a superhero one instead?"

Jonathan thinks he might have ruined the first one for her by not liking it, but he can't fix that now and a superhero one does sound a lot better, so they switch.

The new movie is called "The Incredibles". It's set back before Jonathan was born, for some reason, which must make it look super ancient to people from now. The art is still amazing, though, and the plot is a lot more fun. It's  _ way _ too casual about a guy trying to commit suicide and other people  _ actually dying _ — in a movie for kids!  _ Why _ are movies so disturbing now? — but it's exciting and there are a few great puns. The woman with elastic powers is the best by far, but one of the characters has invisibility  _ and _ shields for superpowers, and Jonathan thinks those would be better to actually have. He's halfway got the first one already, just about, and he likes the idea of shielding people.

Jonathan doesn't like that the bad guy's motivation is not being special, though, and that he uses that as an excuse to be evil and kill people so he can look special too. And he does plan to help all the other not-special people, but only after he's done being selfish and evil, and only because that will make sure the special people aren't anymore.

Jonathan has spent his entire life surrounded by special people, and he's so,  _ so _ ordinary. And he wishes things could be different. Maybe that is selfish, but it doesn't make him evil.

And he's a little annoyed that the person who likes to get pencils and papers all lined up is the mean insurance executive who won't help people. What's wrong with wanting stuff to be organized?

Still. It's neat despite that stuff. And Jonathan really doesn't think Emma picked the movie to send him a message. She's amazing, so she probably just doesn't notice that it basically takes the only things anyone would ever even notice about him and makes them bad-guy things. It's not like he's some genius inventor, so it makes sense she wouldn't think of the rest. She only even picked the movie because he ruined the other one for her and she wanted to show him something she thought he'd like.

Once the movie finishes, Katie insists that Emma go to bed. Emma drags it out, and she hugs Jonathan at least three times in the process, but she can't resist forever and finally gives in. Jonathan goes to brush his teeth, and Katie is waiting for him in the family room when he finishes.

"I feel like I should be saying goodbye, too," she says, looking awkward. "Just in case. Everyone says you'll still be  _ you _ , and you'll remember, but …"

"Thank you for looking after me," he says. She's been so nice, and he owes her so much he can never make up for.

"You're not in the way," Katie says, because of course Emma told on him. He forgets for a second how much older Katie is than him now and gives her the look her claim deserves. "Okay, we had to move some things around," she admits, "but you're my  _ brother _ . You're our family. You're always welcome here, anytime you need. Anytime you  _ want _ ." She hugs him. "We love you and we love having you here."

That's all about older-him, though, not Jonathan, not really. But he doesn't want to upset her again, so he just says, "Thank you."

She draws back. "Do you want me to stay up with you, in case you change back tonight?"

He wishes he could say yes, but it might not happen tonight and she needs her sleep. She's already missed too much because of him. So he just smiles and declines, pointing out that he's tired from all that running around she made him do all day.

It's at least a little true.

She hesitates and hugs him again and tells him she loves him, but she finally does head upstairs, messing up his hair one more time for old time's sake, apparently.

He goes ahead and lies down. He doesn't really want to be alone with his thoughts, but he's been too much of a burden on all of them already. He doesn't really want to go away, but that's not something he can do anything about, and it would make things so much easier for everyone else. He doesn't really want it to happen while he's sleeping, but the thought of being awake and knowing it's happening kind of scares him more.

So he just closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on  _ please don't be awful _ to crowd out everything else.


	22. Partner Modes

Jonathan wakes the next morning to find himself looking at a very familiar room. His first coherent thought is  _ fucking finally _ .

His second is a prudish sort of disapproval at himself for resorting to such language, and his third is a resigned recognition that of  _ course _ this can't be simple. If the past few days are like being drunk, this is the hangover, with his younger worldview still coloring his perceptions.

He's going to have to get over it fast, though. Cursing is the natural accent of cops. He can't go around twitching at every off-color word he hears.

He heads up to the front door to retrieve the garment bag, avoiding the creakier floorboards with the ease of long practice. On the way he drops off the borrowed rosary. He actually does carry one in his jacket, tucked away from casual notice or contact, partly to keep it safe and partly … not.

Snapping so sharply from barely questioning devotion to his more complicated current views feels like spiritual whiplash.

It's not that he's agnostic. He's quite certain God exists. He's equally certain that God doesn't actually care about or even pay the slightest attention to humanity. That's not all or even mostly from the spiritual equivalent of  _ utter fucking silence _ he felt from prayer for all those years, though that certainly didn't help anything. It's more that he started with that, then saw all the things he's seen in his job, and then learned exactly what the church he had still quietly loved had  _ actually been doing _ . Systematically, for decades. To  _ kids _ .

He can never, ever forgive them for that.

_ You are an absentee father _ , he thinks spitefully, out into that uncaring space. It's the worst insult he can imagine.

Wow. He is way too volatile right now. He needs coffee.

Back in the family room, a quick sniff of his work clothes confirms what he hoped. He'd only been up for a few hours when he got zapped, so he can get away with skipping a shower and putting the same clothes back on. He doesn't have time to get back home before he'll have to head in, and he doesn't want to wake the whole house by taking a shower here.

He closes the doors and changes, feeling simple relief as the familiar weight of his jacket settles across his shoulders. Tonya likes to tease him for loading his pockets down, but she sings a different tune when he saves her a trip back to the car or to a drugstore.

He hasn't  _ actually _ gotten around to buying a fake dove yet, but he keeps promising himself he will one day. He wants to see her face when he pulls that out while trying to dig out an evidence bag or something.

He'll have to come up with an offhand comment about his ex-dove, obviously. Probably after a distracted  _ here, hold this _ . Maybe even learn some kind of magician's flourish, just to really mess with her. Work's been far too busy for that to be something he can pull off any time soon, though, so he regretfully shelves the idea again.

His wedding ring is still nestled safely at the bottom of an inside jacket pocket, under his badge. He retrieves the ring and slips it back on. He feels a weird mixture of guilt and relief that he hasn't been wearing it for the past few days, but mostly he's just glad that he thought to keep it safe.

He wishes he could get home before Mark has to leave, but he doubts he'd make it and he can't just disappear on Katie like that. And leaving a note wouldn't really be enough.

Wallet, badge, phone, keys, check. Gun and notebook, not so much, of course.

He takes Tonya's card from the pocket of the sweatpants and tucks it in with his badge so he can give it back to her later, so her personal phone number isn't floating around out there. He quickly folds the sweats into one pile and the blanket and pillow into a second, then raises the blinds so Katie won't have to deal with them later. After that he heads to the kitchen and gets the coffee started.

He'd better bring some more over soon. Looks like they're running low. He never feels like he really brings enough to make up for how much he uses, but he does try.

Obviously that's  _ nothing _ compared to what he owes Katie now — she  _ cancelled classes _ for him, she can't afford that — but figuring out how to pay her back is going to be tricky, because she won't want to hear it. He's irritated that his younger self just assumed he would stiff her. He's not  _ that _ terrible. Not to anyone, but especially not to Katie.

But no, he can't just think of it in terms of what his "younger self" assumed.  _ He _ thought that, while impaired. Everything he did and said and thought is on him, not on some conveniently separate person.

The cats wander in, checking to see if they might be able to score some food. "Hi, Peek," he says quietly, but the grey cat glares at him and leaves. "No? Okay, bye, Peek." Peek judges humans harshly for their unforgivable life choice to not be Mikey or, at the very least, Sarah with a can of food. Poke is more mellow, though, and accepts a brief skritch before heading out as well.

Jonathan gets out his cup while he waits for the coffee to brew. It's a novelty one that says  _ just a little coffee to start the day _ on the side and holds about half a pot. The kids all got together to buy it for him the Christmas before last, so he would have used it occasionally around them no matter what, but he honestly thinks it's great and uses it every chance he gets. He's touched that he has a designated cup here.

Come to think of it, this was what Emma almost gave him yesterday, isn't it? It's a good thing she reconsidered. His younger self — no,  _ he _ , dammit — wouldn't have known what to make of it, and Jonathan doesn't want to know what sort of things he might have thought about it when he didn't understand.

For a moment he wants to clutch his cup protectively, like a dragon protecting its spoils, but … come on. Shake it off.

He glances at the spice rack and sees it's out of order again. Well. Isn't that  _ interesting _ . He leaves it alone, even though it itches at him a little to do so. Fortunately the coffee doesn't take that much longer, so he dumps as much as he can fit into his cup and then heads out to the front stoop, closing the door quietly behind him.

The first drink is too hot, but it's manageable and he needs the caffeine.

So Tonya thinks he's self-medicating a low-grade ADHD or something with coffee? That's … not entirely implausible. He's not going to look into that any further, though. As she noted, he probably couldn't take anything more controlled, and from what he hears about the various evaluations his nieces and nephews have been through, the current approach leans more towards starting with coping strategies than medication anyway. He's already figured out enough to get by.

And, yeah, he's recoiling from the idea of going to a doctor and asking for a diagnosis. Having to start any conversation with  _ I know it's not as bad as Chris, but … _ makes anything after feel like faking, like begging for both attention and an excuse for inadequacy. Intellectually he knows it would be no such thing, but it's really hard to argue down feelings, and he is actually managing just fine on his own already.

For, admittedly, a very carefully chosen interpretation of  _ fine _ , but still.

Once he's gotten a few swallows of coffee down, he sets the cup on the wooden top rail, where it rests pretty securely. Just one of its many excellent attributes. Then he digs out his phone, turns it on, and waits for it to contact the network and quietly freak out.

Ugh.  _ Texts _ .

Leaning against a support column, he skips the notifications and goes straight to the app so he can message Tonya. He already misses his teenage eyes, since he's having to hold the phone a little further away than he'd prefer to. He's going to have to give in and start looking seriously at reading glasses before too much longer, and the options he's seen so far in his casual passing evaluations of the displays are either "add another thirty years" or "delusions of intellect".

Once he's got the phone at the right distance for the letters to sharpen, he sees that Tonya sent him a text at some point, asking that he let her know when he's himself again. As if she even needed to ask. He sends  _ Shady's back _ because it will make her laugh.

Next he moves to his thread with Mark. Mark hasn't sent anything since this whole thing started, which makes sense. Jonathan sends  _ Call or message me when you're up so I know you're not late? _ Mark is emphatically not a morning person, to the point he doesn't even notice when he accidentally turns off the alarm. Usually Jonathan is up first and can make sure he gets up, but there's no way he can get back home in time for that today.

The only other message he needs to deal with now is from Alisa. Her latest sequence starts with  _ Unnamed detective _ followed by  _ That's not you right _ , then  _ RIGHT??? _ , then  _ Because that was YOUR BOSS _ , then  _ Jon????? _ , and then  _ Dammit _ . A few minutes after that, she sent  _ Be safe _ and then  _ Interview after? _ with a winky face.

In person, he'd ask what kind of hardcore drugs she must be on to think he'd say yes — she's on  _ television _ — but he's not about to put anything like that in writing. He just sends  _ lol no _ . It's enough that she'll know he's okay now. She'll pester him, and he'll probably end up agreeing to talk to her on background, but that's all for later.

Thinking of her reminds him of his childishness about the lieutenant. He winces. Wow, did he ever misread that. It was only natural for the lieutenant to glance at Jonathan when he mentioned the media had shown up, because he knows about Jonathan's friendship with the Taylors. They've used that connection several times over the years.

And the lieutenant really wasn't lying about not blaming him. He was simply acknowledging, with a little frustration, that Jonathan has the just-figures kind of luck that pretty much guaranteed he would be the first member of their unit directly affected by this nonsense. They're already run ragged trying to cover for everyone else, as the city freaks out and calls in hundreds of false leads while officers across the department suddenly discover a need to work down their vacation balances. Now Jonathan and Tonya are going to have to spend the next several days cleaning up this new mess.

For the past few days, Jonathan hasn't remembered how the lieutenant talked him into taking the exam, or how he talked him out of resigning after The Incident, or how many times he ran interference after that. So Jonathan wasn't willing to give nearly enough credit for the fact that the lieutenant paired him with Tonya. Lt. Ciccone has more than earned Jonathan's loyalty, so many times over.

And he never meant to suggest Jonathan couldn't follow directions. He was just recognizing, in this case with amusement, that Jonathan had  _ finally _ found an iron-clad excuse to let Tonya give the orders despite their relative seniority.

Jonathan really wants to apologize to him for the misunderstandings, but he's going to have to figure out how much the lieutenant actually noticed first. Apologizing for an insult someone didn't notice the first time tends to go  _ really poorly _ .

A new text shows up, from Tonya, simply reading  _ gdi _ , which has him irritably shoving down the lingering instinct to tut disapprovingly about names-in-vain. A few seconds later, she follows that with  _ RIP me. COD yogurt _ . Oops. Then she asks,  _ Ok to call? _

Still nothing from Mark yet. But … there is still time. Jonathan taps out  _ yup _ and pulls his "partner" mindset forward. A moment later his phone buzzes slightly.

"I  _ know _ better than to eat when I'm reading something from you," Tonya grouses as soon as he answers. "And I just keep forgetting."

"I wasn't actually trying to kill you," he says. "Or give you aspiration pneumonia with  _ yogurt _ . Don't die."

"I'll see what I can do. So, feeling better? All your memories and wrinkles back in the right places?"

"Mostly," he agrees. "The hangover's … interesting, though."

She pauses. "You need to talk anything out?"

"Nah. Unless you want to spend about half an hour cursing at me so I can remember how to stop flinching at swear words," he adds lightly.

He half expects that she'll offer a crude agreement, but she doesn't. "As fun as that sounds … do you need any time off? Get your head back out of high school, maybe … get some space?"

She means from her.

He's been worrying needlessly for the past few days. He knows  _ exactly _ how lucky he is to have her. And he knows full well he doesn't deserve her, but he does his damnedest to make up for that.

English doesn't have the right words for what he feels for her.  _ Love _ is far too prone to misinterpretation,  _ friendship _ too weak,  _ platonic _ too clinical. He does love her, in ways that are very similar to the ways he loves Katie. He just can't ever say that out loud.

"We're fine," he tells her. There is a small — or maybe not-so-small — part of him that wants to take her up on the offer, because he's already embarrassed and will only be more so as more memories catch up with him. But she went out of her way to keep it from being too bad, and he trusts her. Besides. "I think I'd rather just dive in and get it over with. The longer I wait, the more there'll be to catch up on." And the more he'll obsess over what she thinks about him.

"There is that," she mutters, meaning their workload. Damn. He really didn't mean to give her even more to dig out from. "So. Anything you need to get out now, before we're face-to-face?"

She doesn't give herself nearly enough credit for how good she is at this. Normally he doesn't like talking on the phone, because body language makes a huge difference. Right now, that's actually a benefit, because she can't see his, so he feels safer. Braver.

"It feels like there ought to be," he admits. "Not sure I'm actually there yet." He's probably rushing things, but he feels guilty for dropping out like that, even though he knows it wasn't really his fault. He  _ did _ try to get out of the way.

"You really did think you were difficult, didn't you?" she asks, sounding amused at the thought. "And I'm guessing it's about three-to-one that you still do."

"You had to hold my hand an awful lot there," he points out. He's not surprised he was so insecure, but he is surprised he was so willing to let her see it. He doesn't remember being anything like that open, the first time around, except with Katie. But he latched on to Tonya  _ hard _ , trusted her far further and faster than he ever would have predicted. "You never signed on to be my parent."

"I  _ did _ , more or less, as soon as I signed that guardianship paperwork," she says. "Same as you did for me."

It's not the same, actually, because he's much further down her list, for depressing but entirely understandable reasons. There's no way a lost and confused teenage black girl would or  _ should _ be comfortable with a middle-aged, white, male cop, even without the extra wariness Tonya has warned him she had back then. But this isn't the time to quibble.

Tonya continues, "Yeah, we were all hoping we were just being paranoid, but we meant it all the same. I have no … well. I have one regret. I should have nixed the MRI."

"You couldn't have known," Jonathan points out. " _ I _ didn't know. I don't just mean younger-me, either.  _ This _ me had no idea it would be that much of a problem. It's not like I haven't had an MRI before." He wants to apologize for losing it so completely and making her comfort him, but he technically already did and he knows overdoing apologies can be annoying.

He underlined  _ you can say no _ , but at the time, he thought that was only because he remembered how impossible telling adults  _ no _ had been when he was a kid. He thought he was just being careful to make sure any younger version of himself knew it really was a choice.

He's always been a little too good at lying to himself.

"I did figure that out," she says, faintly amused. She means about his not knowing, not his internal politics. "But I knew something was up with you and hospitals,  _ and _ that you were just coming off a messy fight. I just wish I'd been a little more careful." Which is  _ her _ way of apologizing to  _ him _ , which  _ she _ already did.

Normally he would be assuring her it's not her fault — which it isn't — but he's quiet as he tries to decide if he wants to tell her.

"Jack?" she prompts after several seconds, worried. "Or — crap, should I —"

"Don't," he says, wincing. " _ Jack _ is absolutely fine." Yes, he gave up on his own name, because he had far bigger things to worry about. Andy noticed he prefers his real name, and Mark bothered to ask, and otherwise, he can live with being called  _ Jon _ in his personal life. And as for  _ Jack _ — "It reminds me I'm at work."

That's imprecise, because he actually does still introduce himself as  _ Jon _ , as she's noticed. But when other cops call him  _ Jack _ , that reminds him of the role he has to play.

Unless the other cop is Tonya, in which case that's just what she calls him and it's fine. Just like he minds  _ Jonny _ a lot less from Katie than from anyone else.

"Oh, yay," she mutters without enthusiasm, which reminds him of what she said about the way he acts around the ones who aren't her. He knew she didn't really  _ like _ the act, but he didn't know it bothered her that much. It does reflect pretty poorly on her, though, and he regrets that. "I'd ask if you're sure, but you'd say you are no matter what. Just … if you change your mind, I really am willing to call you something else, you know."

"I know." He'll have to explain the whole thing, but it'll work better in person. "I do appreciate it." He takes a deep breath. "So. The hospital thing. Just after I turned sixteen —"

"I'm  _ not asking _ ," she says hastily.

" _ Just after I turned sixteen _ ," he repeats firmly. He can talk about this now, and he can't always. And he can't imagine any circumstances coming up later when he could just casually bring it up. "I was helping some friends try to get an old car running, and I managed to snag my arm on a moving fan blade."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, but I was actually more embarrassed than anything else, at first."

"Why embarrassed? It sounds like a normal enough accident."

"Because I knew better. Dad's a mechanic, so I  _ absolutely _ knew better than to let that happen." His brain is still stuck a little in teenage mode, because that should have been  _ my father was a mechanic _ . "I was just … distracted. And Katie's right, I hide. So, in my  _ infinite _ teenage wisdom, I grabbed a rag to apply pressure, told my friends it was basically just a scratch, and decided I would deal with it myself. I would  _ walk home _ and deal with it myself."

"I'm guessing it wasn't just a scratch," she says carefully.

"It really wasn't," he admits. Shock and shame had kept him from registering most of it. "The walk didn't help anything. I remember the walk, mostly, and I kind of remember getting home. I apparently did get to the bathroom and try to patch myself up, but I don't remember that part. I just remember waking up in the hospital to people telling me that I would have died if Katie hadn't found me."

She sucks in a breath. " _ Jesus _ , Jack."

"... Yeah."  _ Shut _ up _ , younger brain, that's not in vain. It's basically sincere _ . "I was freaked out, and I just wanted to go home, but they obviously couldn't release me immediately, so I felt trapped. And  _ then _ —" a mirthless laugh escapes him "— Mary Ellen tried to help me out by sorting out my class assignments so I wouldn't fall too far behind, which is when everyone discovered that I'd been failing every one of my classes all year. And had intercepted the letters about it. And had kind of forged my parents' signatures on the report cards."

"And no one noticed. For, what, over half the year." She doesn't sound particularly surprised.

"Well, I was a … middling student the prior year. No one really had any reason to pay attention, and … people didn't really notice me anyway. And not being noticed really started to seem like a good idea." She can draw her own conclusions about why.

It's probably pretty pathetic that he's willing to tell her about this whole humiliating episode, but he can't bring himself to say  _ the summer before all that was when I started to understand exactly what Katie saw when she mooned over the older boys _ . That's something he never really learned how to talk about, though, while he's had plenty of practice swallowing his pride.

… So to speak. Ugh. He means about his own  _ ineptness _ , not about parades. Stupid English.

And then, just to make things even better, the older side of his brain makes a desperate bid for command over the situation by crudely reinterpreting  _ swallowing _ , and he thumps his head lightly against the support column. Why is his brain such an utter  _ disaster _ ?

He forcefully drags his attention back to the subject at hand. "Anyway, that's why my mother made sure I was  _ never alone _ for the next couple of  _ months _ . She was worried she'd miss something else and I would manage to fall out of an airplane or something, I don't know." He sighs. "I know it was a reasonable reaction on her part, but I  _ really _ didn't want people paying attention to me at that point."

"Which is why your sister started doing the same thing the other day, and why you went off on her for it," Tonya says. "Just tell me —" But she cuts herself off and rephrases. "Tell me nothing, it's not my business, but I  _ really hope _ someone got  _ her _ some therapy back then, if she's the one who found you bleeding out in a bathroom. And that she's got someone to talk to about it now."

She's right, damn it, he needs to make sure Katie's okay, but he can't help the noise he makes.

"Oh. Is this also where your thing about therapists comes from?"

That verges on prying, but it's a fair question, because they have to refer people to various mental health resources  _ all the time _ . And it's entirely unprofessional of him that he has ever let her see his discomfort about that.

"Teenager plus failing grades plus a cutting injury to the inner arm equals a social worker sniffing around about suicide risk," he grates out. "Bad enough that they wanted in my brain and I  _ did not _ want anyone in there. Being accused of a mortal sin was  _ just _ what I needed right then." He makes himself take a deep breath. They were right to check. They would have been criminally negligent  _ not _ to check, dammit. "Fortunately, the box of Band-Aids I spilled when I tried to patch myself up served as evidence that it really was just a dumb accident."

"... Band-Aids," Tonya repeats with disbelief.

_ I never said I was smart _ almost makes it out of his mouth, but he catches it just in time. "I was pretty out of it by then," he says instead. "And the failing grades meant no one expected me to be all that smart anyway."  _ Dammit _ . "Anyway, they finally believed me, at least enough to back off and let me go to a priest for counseling."

"So all of that is why you get twitchy around hospitals and therapists now, but you can deal. But at seventeen …"

"I thought I was fine by then," he says. "A year felt like  _ forever _ . But yeah, I was still too close to it. Sorry I didn't figure it out sooner."

"Well, I'm still sorry I didn't listen to my instincts and shut it down faster," she says. "But I get why you've never mentioned this before. Thanks for telling me now."

She's always deserved more honesty than he's ever quite been willing to give her. "Thanks for letting me talk your ear off ... and, crap, make you run late."

"I'm still good, barely. This early, I'm guessing you haven't actually settled things with your family, so deal with them first and head in after that, okay? I'll square it with the lieutenant."

He redirects his automatic  _ Yes, ma'am _ into, "Will do," by sheer force of will.

Once they hang up, Jonathan checks his thread with Mark again and frowns, because he still hasn't gotten anything back. After a moment's indecision — there could be a reason Mark hasn't called or replied yet — and another check of the time, he shoves all his cop attributes far back, pulls his "husband" mindset forward, and calls.

Mark answers after the third ring with a muddled  _ Hello _ that ends in a yawn.

"Please tell me that's your post-breakfast grogginess and not your I-woke-you-up grogginess," Jonathan says. It's harder to tell over a phone than he likes.

"Oh, yeah, I … wait, who …" Jonathan starts smiling helplessly at that. Mark is  _ so _ not a morning person. But he suddenly sounds a lot more awake as he says, " _ Jonathan _ ? You're back — I mean, you're okay? I mean —"

"I'm back and okay and myself again," Jonathan supplies, relaxing.

He always worries that he'll manage to call at just the wrong moment, interrupting Mark in the middle of something important or complicated. Even getting to the phone at all before a caller gives up can be tricky for Mark sometimes, since he's not always careful to keep his phone on him. And since Jonathan isn't really big on phone calls anyway, a call from him might make Mark worry that there's some emergency. But Mark sounds happy to hear from him now.

Of course he is, because  _ that's how marriage works _ . Good ones, anyway, which theirs  _ is _ . But … just … blah. Insecurity. Always a blast.

"Just making sure you're up. You can ignore the text from me."

"Text — oh — sorry. I didn't think to check yet. I've been trying so hard not to drown everyone with texts and calls, and now I go and miss yours. Are you … any chance I'll see you this morning?"

"I'm still at Katie's," Jonathan says with regret. "Can't get there before you have to leave, sorry. And I've got some stuff to sort out here anyway."

"That makes sense," Mark says reluctantly. "Thank you for calling so I could at least talk to you." Yeah, Jonathan really doesn't call enough when he's tied up. Nice going. "Tonight, then?"

"Probably." Work is ridiculous right now. And while Mark apparently used to be something of a night owl, he needs more sleep now, so he tends to fall asleep before Jonathan does, and sometimes before Jonathan can even get home. But Jonathan intends to try, because it's not actually his fault that work is ridiculous, and work is basically why he hasn't been home in  _ three days _ . "I'll try."

Mark is quiet for a bit. He knew about Jonathan's job going in, but it's still hard for both of them sometimes. He finally just says, "I miss you."

"I miss you, too. I really will try to get home at a reasonable hour tonight." He wants to say that work really owes him right now, but he's not confident they'll see it that way. "Go get ready for school. Show all those kids why covalent bonds are cool."

"Covalent bonds —" Mark repeats, sounding confused.

Jonathan basically gets a refresher on high school chemistry every year, but he never quite remembers the exact order and he hasn't had time this year to remind himself. He laughs a little. "Never mind. You can remind me how your lesson plans go later. Don't let me make you late now. Remember, it's keys-wallet-phone-satchel-lunch."

"I know," Mark sighs, which means he's really awake. When he's not, he just keeps mumbling the list to himself, and he still sometimes ends up lingering at the door, trying to work out which item from his list is missing. "I'm glad you're back. I'll see you tonight. I love you."

Jonathan winces, because it's harder for him to just say that alone instead of at the end of other stuff, but he can't do that now. Mark deserves the words, though, and it's still a lot easier to say them in reply than in isolation. So he manages to say, "Love you too," back, all on its own, right here in front of the empty — drat, no, in front of the four-doors-down lady walking her dog past Katie's house.

She can't possibly have heard him from down on the sidewalk, much less know who he was talking to, and it's not that he's ashamed anyway, but he still feels exposed. He hangs up, picks up his oversized cup, and gives the woman an admittedly somewhat manic smile. She responds by picking up the pace significantly, which is fine with him.


	23. Family Modes

The door creaks slightly behind Jonathan, so he drops his phone back into his pocket for safekeeping and turns. He takes a quick drink and sets his cup back down, moving away from it to keep it out of the line of fire. He sidesteps mentally into "family" mode as well.

As he guessed, it's Emma, peering around the door with a worried, "Uncle Jon?" Then she sees him and lights up like fireworks, shouting, "Uncle Jon!" with delight and launching herself through the doorway to tackle him in a hug. "You're back!"

"Hey, Sprout," he says, returning her hug just as emphatically. He's been such an idiot these past few days, being so scared to hug her back.

She tips her head back — ow, pointy chin — to grin up at him. "You remember!"

"Sure do."

"Do you remember being little?"

It's weird that she calls it that, since he was pretty much the same height, but he knows what she means. "Yeah," he sighs. "Thank you for looking after me."

Her smile dims. "Are you still sad?"

He hugs her a little tighter. He loves her so much. "No. I was just dealing with a lot of stuff that stressed me out. I'm better now, promise." He would have told her that no matter what — Katie's right that Emma takes on far too much responsibility for the happiness of the adults in her life — but in this case, it's actually true.

He hadn't remembered just how much, how  _ intensely _ , he'd been so miserable back then. It's not quite that he hated himself, but that's not entirely wrong, either. Just thinking back over the last few days makes him feel tired. He's happy to be too old for that shit now.

He's not perfect, but he's not the raging tire fire he's recently been assuming. He was such a judgy little twerp.

"I really am sorry I let Mom know about the spices," Emma says. "She probably won't mind if you keep fixing them, though."

"I did the crime, I can do the time," he says easily. "Funny thing, though. Do you know  _ why _ I sort the spices?"

"Because it makes you feel better," she says with confidence.

"Because it kind of bugs me when they're mixed up, so fixing them makes me feel better in comparison," he corrects. Her eyes widen in realization. "And yet,  _ somehow _ , they're always mixed up again whenever I come over. It's almost like your mom doesn't put them back right because they're always mixed up whenever she tries to use them, so she stopped bothering."

Emma's eyes narrow in cagey calculation.

"I even wonder if maybe they'll suddenly  _ stop _ being mixed up all the time, now that I've said something," he adds pointedly.

Emma sighs gustily and pulls away, muttering, "Busted."

He ruffles her hair. "You were trying to help. I do appreciate that. I'll take the rap this time, but you'd better earn this second chance I'm buying you, champ." Something about her posture makes him add on a hunch, "I'll still come over to see you even if the spice rack is already perfect, you know."

Dammit. She looks so  _ uncertain _ suddenly. He hugs her again. "I'm sorry I haven't been around. We've just been really, really busy. It's like freeze week for your dad — it'll end." Eventually.

Ah, hell.

"It's been both of us at the same time. I'm sorry, Sprout. But your dad's done now, so he'll be around more, and we'll catch the people behind this magic thing." Maybe. Somehow. Or they'll at least move on to some other city, which isn't great but he'll  _ take it _ .

And because he had that thought, with his luck, they'll move to Newton. Which would be  _ unacceptable _ , dammit.

"I know." Emma's sniffling a little. "But even in freeze week I get to see Dad a little every day. I wish you and Uncle Mark could live here with us."

That sounds like a special kind of hell, honestly, because this is not a big house and they're a pretty chaotic family, and that's leaving aside the whole question of sharing a bed with someone in  _ his sister's house _ . That is  _ every _ kind of nope. He already has to work overtime mentally every time he sleeps over, pointedly  _ not _ thinking about his kid sister sharing a bed with someone just upstairs from him.

Hell, he can't even think in terms more specific than "sharing a bed" when he's standing on her property, because she's his  _ little sister _ .

But he gets it, because he does wish he could be closer and see them more.

"I've got to live in the city limits," he points out. It's true enough and avoids all the rest. "And you guys could move and be our neighbors, but can you imagine trying to squeeze everyone here into an apartment the size of ours?"

She laughs a tiny bit as she tries to picture it.

He pulls back and sets his hands on her shoulders. "Who's been telling you that you're  _ a lot _ ? I'm not allowed to offer to beat people up for you, but now that I'm being charged for your spice crimes, I'm basically already an outlaw."

She shrugs. "I just know I am. It's okay."

He can't bear the thought of her ever feeling the way he's felt for the past few days. "You are  _ exactly _ the right amount, Emma. What's your song say? 'Haters gonna hate, hate, hate'?" He is a 46-year-old man. He has no interest whatsoever in dancing to some cheesy pop song on his sister's front porch. He will if that's what it takes. "They're all just jelly. That's what kids say now, right?"

Emma groans dramatically. He doesn't let his evil grin show.

"They know you're going to take over the world with your sheer awesome. And I'll be right there at your side, got it?" He considers. "Not your second-in-command, I think."

Because even now, even for a silly pretend scenario, he shies away from the prospect of that much attention. It's possible he still has a few issues.

"Too much work. Your head of security, maybe. Because I'll take the fall for you on this spice rap, and then when I've served my time and learned the error of my ways, you'll charitably give me the position to rehabilitate me. That'll be your official reason, but we'll both know it's  _ actually _ your way of thanking me for my service to your cause. And once a week, at about twenty past the hour, someone will mention spices, and we'll make  _ significant eye contact _ , acknowledging our secretly shared spice-crime past." She's right on the edge, so he gives her a soap-opera-worthy Meaningful Glance and is relieved when she dissolves into giggles.

Even if Mark wanted kids — and he's always been very clear that he does not — Jonathan will never get to be a father. Katie can call him a sexist for it all she wants, but he firmly believes that kids should have mothers whenever possible, which rules out most methods he could use. And even if he did have any interest in part-time parenting, he doesn't trust some co-parenting contract to be enough to keep some woman around for a couple of decades, when she doesn't have any other particular investment in him.

So he'll never have kids of his own. And Katie's kids already have two great parents. They don't need him shoving himself into the picture as anything other than a doting uncle.

No matter how similar she can be to him, Emma is not his daughter. He is very, very clear on that.

But maybe … maybe sometimes he pretends, just a little bit. Just to himself.

And he needs to not think about that  _ at all _ around Emma, because she's as scarily intuitive as Tonya sometimes seems to think he is. Tonya's just lucky she escaped Emma so quickly.

"All right, World Director —  _ I mean _ , Innocent Eighth Grade Student with Zero Plans for World Domination — Emma." That's a terrible title. He'll have to work on one that makes a cool acronym. "I think you're supposed to be getting ready for school?"

"Oh,  _ fine _ ." She hugs him again. "I'm glad you're back. And I liked meeting little-you."

Jonathan frowns a bit at that, while she can't see. She's so  _ kind _ , and he worries sometimes that she lets that blind her. At least he apparently didn't let her see just how  _ much _ of a mess he was back then, and with any luck — meaning hers, not his — his self-doubt won't turn out to have been catching. "Ask Sarah to come join me out here in my office, okay?"

Sarah emerges a few minutes later, a lot of the worry leaving her expression as she sees him. She hugs him too, in her own careful way, and he takes his cup back up again, and they sit down together on the top step.

"I just got back from being zapped," he says. "Ask me anything."

"Did it hurt?" she asks immediately.

Katie tries so hard to protect the kids, and he tries to respect that. But there's a line between "protecting" and "dismissing fears", and he worries that she lands on the wrong side of that with Sarah sometimes. He's not going to undermine Katie, but he knows Sarah needs to know the shape of the things she fears so they don't grow out of control where she can't see them.

"Mostly no," he tells her. "I think it might have tingled a bit, but I don't really remember too well. It did make me fall down, and I landed funny, so that hurt a little. But that was just a bruise, and by the time I landed I was younger, so that went away when I changed back."

"Did  _ changing back _ hurt?" she demands.

"I was asleep and it didn't wake me up, so I don't think it did. Unless it's why I woke up when I did, but that just felt like waking up always does. I do ache a little bit, like I stretched too hard, but I played tennis with your mom for hours yesterday, so honestly I got off lucky there." If that had carried over to his current body, he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to move right now.

"Mom goes easy," Sarah says, dismissing that.

"Your mom goes easy unless you start messing with her," he corrects. "Then she teaches you a lesson. Specifically, that she's  _ very good _ at what she does and you can't fool her for long." Not very wise of him to go poking the bear like that. Still fun, though.

"Will they come wammy me?" Sarah asks, voice very small.

Jonathan takes a few seconds to answer, so that she'll know he's taking her seriously. "We've never heard of someone who's already a kid getting zapped," he tells her. "And no kids have gone missing from any of the locations we know about." He  hates having to include that disclaimer. Kids damn well shouldn't go missing at all. "So as far as we know, either they aren't zapping kids, or if they are, it doesn't affect kids."

That topic has kept him up nights. They still have  _ no idea _ what determines how many years get stripped away — whether it's a fraction, which a kid would probably still survive, or whether it's subtraction, which a kid almost certainly would not. The minimum number of removed years he's heard of so far is something like nine, which is far too close to Sarah's and especially Mikey's ages for his comfort. And he got twenty-nine, not just nine.

"They also don't seem to go where kids tend to be," he adds. "Some stores, but mostly ones that only have adults, like hardware stores and … high-end handbag boutiques, of all things. A dock, a few warehouses. Our best guess is that they're trying to find something, but it doesn't seem to be anything they expect to find in places like parks or schools."

Sarah flinches a little. Damned school-shooter drills. He didn't have the context a few days ago to understand why she was worried someone would come "wammy up" her school.

Katie and Dan are trying to avoid medication — which just makes him think of Tonya's reaction to him, when he said he didn't need medication the way Chris did, but this isn't about putting too-heavy expectations on kids, dammit. Anxiety medications can be dangerous for kids. They'll get Sarah on them if they have to, if her counseling and other supports turn out not to be enough, but they need to be sure, for  _ her _ sake. Having her school terrify her on a regular basis is  _ not helping _ .

And what the hell, his parents didn't have too-heavy expectations of him, either. They would have gotten him medication if he'd really needed it, the same way they did for Chris. He didn't need it. He passed everything just fine with the exception of one bad year, when he was too distracted trying to cram the jack-in-the-box of his sexuality back  _ into _ its box to pay any attention to classes.

… What even is his brain right now.

It would be nice to blame this whole zapping nonsense, but honestly, his brain is  _ always _ this weird. Too bad the factory-reset didn't help with that.

"We haven't heard of any cases of someone getting zapped and turning out to be related to someone else who got zapped," he tells Sarah, because hi, she's still here and she still needs him. "So it doesn't look like me getting zapped makes you getting zapped any more likely. I can't  _ promise _ that it makes it  _ less _ likely," he adds, because he's not going to tell her everything's fine, but he's enough of a manipulative jerk to want to suggest it anyway. "Anything else?"

She considers and then shakes her head.

"Good. Glad we had this talk. Get your mom to let me know if you have any more questions, okay? Now get going." He hugs her again and shoos her back inside, because he doesn't want to make her late for school.

… Maybe his grades could have been  _ better _ .

Okay, sure, fine, and maybe he could have been a  _ zombie _ the way Chris was that time they miscalculated his dosage. It was obvious with Chris, because he went from bright and gregarious to vague and mumbly. Who would have noticed the difference with Jonathan? He probably could have sleepwalked through a few years that way. Great plan.

His parents did their best and he turned out well enough. It's not like he had any talents or prospects that his middling grades put out of reach, or like he wouldn't still have slammed into a brick wall the summer he was fifteen, or like Granddad wouldn't still have needed help when Jonathan was finishing school.

He's fine, and he's not a petulant kid anymore, so maybe his brain could get around to catching up on that.

He heads back inside and has to dodge Mikey, who is charging past him and up the stairs, a cat-litter scoop in hand. "Hi Uncle Jon!" Mikey yells on his way past.

"Hi Mikey!" Jonathan calls back. He feels like he should spend a little time with Mikey, too, but he wouldn't know what to do with it. He loves Mikey, and he feels guilty that he doesn't really know how to  _ relate _ to him.

"Hi dork." Katie is standing in the door to the dining room, grinning at him.

He goes over and wraps her in a fierce hug, which is excellent, and which finally gives him the right angle to mess  _ her _ hair up when he lets her go again. "Thank you. I know you'd say it's nothing because I'm family, but you've been amazing, and you really didn't have to. Thank you."

She even gave him a little space — there's no way she missed Emma's delighted announcement — to work his way up to this instead of making him deal with everyone piling onto him at once. She's the best sister ever.

"Like I keep  _ telling _ you, I'm glad you were here. I'm glad we could be here for you."

He's so damn lucky. Tonya's options are — in rapidly more terrible order — her seventy-something-year-old mother, her husband, the sister she can hardly bear to be within a couple of states of, and him. As little as he enjoyed going through this, it could have been so much worse.

"You already talked to Mark,  _ right _ ?" she checks, threat plain.

"Ages ago, yeah. Catch up." He's been married longer than she has, no matter what the state says. He doesn't need her to remind him how it works.

He looks around to make sure none of the kids are likely to barge in over the next few seconds and drops his voice. "I'm sorry I scared you. Tonya pointed out I should make sure you have someone to talk to, in case I brought back any old nightmares or anything."

She was still having them when he got back from the hospital. He's been such an asshole not to have considered he might bring them back.

For a moment she looks like she's going to say everything's fine, but they know each other too well. "I've got someone I can call," she says. After another few seconds, she adds, "I will call."

He despises himself a little for pushing her into that. He's such a damn hypocrite. But it's not like he can just leave her hurting. "Did they ever have you see anyone back then?" He'd been too wrapped up in himself to notice.

"Yeah. Through the church, same as you. I'm okay, really."

"And how many classes did you cancel for me these past few days?" he asks, because the argument will at least be an effective distraction.

"Pfft,  _ none _ . Exactly zero." She flounces back towards the kitchen as they settle into one of their usual squabbles. He insists he wants to pay her back as the first refrain, she proclaims he doesn't owe her anything as the second refrain, he tells her that every denial adds a few more dollars to the funds as the bridge, and then they share a rousing chorus of Being Family Shouldn't Cost Money (No You, No  _ You _ ).

He's set up modest funds for each of her three kids, for college or trade school or world travel or whatever damn thing they end up needing. They're not much at all, but it's not like he'll ever have to send a kid to college himself, and he remembers — even more vividly right now than usual — what it feels like to have not quite enough money to feel secure. He can at least push that out a little for each of them.

And it gives him an outlet when Katie is too stubborn about letting him make up for all she does. Maybe it makes him a jerk, but he's a big brother, so it's in the job description.

He goes to raid her fridge while they bicker lightly. And yes, she  _ has _ been holding out on him. The fridge is crammed with the semi-reusable plastic containers Mark uses when he sends food to other people. Okay, Jonathan's timid younger palate probably wouldn't have appreciated Mark's culinary ventures properly anyway — how could he not appreciate the delicious difference avocado makes? What's even the point of a cheddar that isn't at least sharp enough to be banned from a carry-on? — but he wouldn't have minded knowing.

Mark didn't abandon him, didn't decide he didn't care after all.

Good grief, has he really been  _ that _ insecure? How has anyone been able to stand him this whole time?

… Okay, yes, he didn't trust it for a long time, and he didn't have all those years of experience teaching him otherwise when he was only seventeen. Still. He knows it  _ now _ , dammit.

He pulls out the first suitably sized familiar container that comes to hand. Mushroom casserole. Weird as breakfasts go, but one of the upsides of being an adult is eating whatever the hell you want. He warms it briefly in the microwave and leans against the counter to dig in.

Dan wanders in and does yet another double-take on seeing him. Jonathan is torn between confusing him with a bunch of yes-sirs or intimidating him with watching-you gestures, but in the end, he just takes another bite of casserole and then waves at Dan with his fork hand. And updates his mental shopping list to include a can of shaving cream.

Ha, Dan doesn't know how to take the neutral reaction anyway. He goes over to get some coffee, listening to figure out what Jonathan and Katie are talking about.

"Can you submit an expense report for it?" he asks, because Jonathan mentioned that his job shouldn't cause expenses for Katie's job, and Dan looks at things from a more white-collar-office perspective.

"Huh," Jonathan says, feigning surprise at the thought. "I'll look into that."

He won't, because he knows exactly what reaction that would get — if you wanted it on our dime you should have let us lock you in a lab the way we wanted so no, they're your family so no, you have a spouse anyway so no, you were seventeen so you should have been able to take care of yourself so hell no, and so on.

But it's an out from this song that never ends, and it reminds him that he might be able to lean on Dan to accept repayment, if he keeps it away from Katie's notice. That counts as using his protective-older-brother powers only for good, right?

Emma heads out after giving him a hug. A short while later, Sarah and Mikey also head out, also giving him hugs. Jonathan puts away his dirty dishes, swiftly fixes the spices, and then wanders out of the kitchen, so Dan can save all his leaving hugs for when Katie gets back from the bus stop, and Jonathan can not think about anything else they might do.

He needs to get going. Dan will give him a ride to the T, so he just has to make sure he's ready. He puts away his duffel — he wants to take it home so he can return the extra clothes to the store, but with his luck he'll just get zapped again, so he doesn't dare — and quickly uses the bathroom, turning after to wash his hands and check that he's presentable.

He looks in the mirror —

— and nothing's strange. Why did he think … he didn't see a flicker or anything, but for just a moment he was sure he'd see … something odd. But he looks the same as he always does, boring-brown eyes-hair-beard, two of those slightly greying. Whatever thought he's trying to pin down keeps squirming stubbornly away from him.

Fine. He'll wait and sneak up on it later. It's probably just some weird self-perception thing being slightly out of alignment and needing to shake back down. With the brief application of a comb, he's sufficiently groomed to blend in with everyone else. That's enough.


	24. Cop Modes, Inbound

Dan does give Jonathan a ride, an old arrangement they don't even need to discuss anymore, even if they don't usually leave it to this late in the morning. Jonathan starts leaning on him to get numbers "for the expense report" as soon as they reach the end of the block, because there's no time like the present.

Dan insists Katie won't tell him how many classes and lessons she cancelled, because apparently she suspected he would be the weak link. But he also knows how much those classes and lessons generally bring in and what the difference means to his family, because he offers to work out how much she usually brings in for the first half of the week and what he thinks the difference is and let Jonathan know.

Jonathan will take it. Dan's a pretty good guy.

Once he leaves Dan's car, Jonathan tucks his family mode away and brings his general "cop" mindset forward. The T is its usual crowded delight, but there are no major delays and no one tries to pick his pockets, so it's not too bad. He's certainly had worse trips, and it definitely beats driving. He  _ can _ drive, which is a good thing since his job requires the ability, but his insurance budget thanks him not to even when he doesn't have traces of his pre-license self rattling around in his brain.

The combination of fluorescent lights and dark tunnels once the cars head underground causes the windows to turn occasionally reflective. He uses that a lot, partly to keep a casual eye out for trouble and sometimes as a quick check that he hasn't been targeted by a passing bird or anything, but he keeps catching himself carefully  _ not _ looking anywhere near his own part of the reflection today. He has no idea what that's about. He does get visual migraine auras sometimes, if he's about to have a particularly shitty day, but those are nothing like this.

Tonya wasn't sure how to take his younger-brained denial of migraines. He doesn't  _ think _ she thought he was lying, but she has a low opinion of his self-assessment accuracy, and he only has himself to blame for that. But he really was innocent this time, since he was in his early twenties when they first started.

Jonathan keeps his eyes away from the glass of the car windows, just in case. He's already going to have problems at work, and he can't afford a sick day for that kind of nonsense. His migraines are rare and they're more than welcome to stay that way.

He hates being late to work, even with an excuse. When he's early, he can interact with as few people as possible, handle anything he absolutely needs his desk for, and find some reason that he and Tonya can work elsewhere for most or all of the rest of the day. When he's late, he has to walk past everyone who hasn't yet made their own escapes and pretend not to hear their commentary.

It's harder than usual to slip into the vapid smile of his around-most-other-cops work persona. Tonya just had to go and say something about it, didn't she. But he's been practicing it for a long, long time, and it's second nature by now to let his mouth take on that meaningless curve, to let his eyes go just a bit vacant. To wait an extra beat to react to anything said directly to him. To be a little slow to put together that a greeting was aimed at him. To "not hear" the whispers and faint snickers as people gradually notice and then recognize him. To "miss" the snide insinuation in that one muttered comment.

He really hasn't missed this part of his job.

Tonya looks a little irritated but smothers it, taking a paper shopping bag from one of her drawers and then standing as he approaches their desks. "Come on, we need to grab the lieutenant before he heads out." None of that is actually necessary for her to say, but she plays along with his charade sometimes, and she's decided to do so today.

He lets the mask drop a little once they're in the lieutenant's office with the door closed. "Sir."

The lieutenant looks him over. "Davis. Good to have you back."

"Glad you think so, sir," Tonya says coolly, tossing the paper bag lightly so it lands on the lieutenant's desk with an odd combination of thump and plasticky clatter. "I think a few other people might be confused about the concept of welcome-back gifts."

The lieutenant opens the bag, peers inside, and lifts out a pacifier, followed by a baby bottle.

That's the other reason Jonathan hates getting to work late. He doesn't get a chance to clear random shit from his desk before Tonya sees it and gets annoyed on his behalf.

This stuff is pretty tame, though. It's not targeted. Pretty much any cop in his situation could expect to find a rattle and a board book on his desk when he got back. It's mocking, yeah, but nothing out of bounds. Hell, for once it feels like inclusion, in the backhanded language of police everywhere.

… A copy of  _ What to Expect When You're Expecting _ , though? That's weirder.

"That one was left for me," Tonya clarifies. Jonathan firmly reminds himself he can't go beat up any of his colleagues. Ever, dammit.

"You want to lodge a complaint?" the lieutenant asks. It's a bit sardonic this time. Even the book isn't that bad, really. If not for her long history stuck with Jonathan as a partner, Tonya probably would have waved all of it off as little more than a mild annoyance.

Tonya sighs. "Not worth it." She means on her own behalf, because she already knows Jonathan won't bother on his. It's really not worth the hassle.

The lieutenant starts putting the random baby supplies back into the bag. "Do you know what time you changed back, Davis?"

"Not specifically, sir. Sometime last night or this morning."

"All right," the lieutenant says. "Desk duty." Jonathan carefully doesn't react, because this isn't remotely a surprise, but he really  _ hates _ desk duty. "Let's say a couple of days, just to be sure. Unless you want to go get a psych sign-off?"

"Desk duty sounds fantastic, sir," Jonathan says, deadpan. The suggestion wasn't made with any actual expectation he'd accept. Cops don't go for psych evals any more than they can help, partly as a culture thing, partly because having anything like that on file can threaten a career.

He could fight even the desk assignment, if he really wanted to, but they tend to handle minor stuff like this in-house. Jonathan trusts the lieutenant's judgment. Desk duty isn't a terrible idea right now, and it won't kill him. It hasn't yet, anyway. 

He gets his weapon and notebook back out of the deal, at least, and he and Tonya head back to their desks. She's decided to stick around for at least most of the day so they can sort out where all their cases are, though she hasn't made any promises not to make a few runs if necessary.  _ She's _ not on desk duty.

He double-checks his seat before sitting automatically, as well as his keyboard, but pranks like that are less common by this time of the morning. Besides, the most likely culprit for most of Jonathan's unpleasant chair surprises retired a couple of years back, and shockingly enough those surprises pretty much stopped at about the same time.

One of the many problems with desk duty is that it's hard to work with Tonya, which requires he actually have and use a brain, in the same space where he'd rather everyone else just assume he's not too bright. They're able to work pretty quietly, though, and once they've caught up with each other, he can turn to working on his computer. He's behind on paperwork, of course — he'll go to his grave behind on paperwork, but it's much worse than usual right now, so he buckles down and starts plowing through.

A few officers actually stop by to check on him — a couple of detectives, a uniform — which is weird. They're all on his more-likely-safe-than-not list, but they're all nosier than he's even slightly comfortable with, so he makes sure the entire process is unsatisfying. They want to know what it was like to be a teenager for a few days? "Well … I was a teenager. It was … confusing, I guess." Puzzled frown, a few blinks. "And then I wasn't anymore." That sort of thing.

He's usually pretty good at switching roles on short notice, but these two roles are too different while having too much in common, and having to go back and forth is annoying. His brain feels sluggish each time he tries to turn it back on again to refocus on his paperwork.

After the third random interruption, Tonya stands and gestures for him to join her. "Come on. You owe me coffee."

They don't really have a code, but that might as well be one. In terms of just a coffee balance sheet, he's confident he doesn't owe her, and a coffee wouldn't be nearly enough to make up for the past few days. But she really just wants to get him away from their desks for a while.

She doesn't just head for the break room, though, but leads him outside.

"Everything okay?" he asks once they're well clear of the building and he can let himself settle properly into "partner" mode again.

"Figured you needed a break," she says. "You're slipping. If you really want people to think you don't have any spare brain cells to rub together, you need to keep that smile closer to 'insipid' than 'sarcastic'."

"Oh." He sighs. "Thanks." His patience is on the short side today, but it must be a lot worse than he realized if he's letting anything show. "Sorry you're stuck having to critique it today."

"I'll survive," she says. "Probably." A few steps later, she says, "I have this fantasy."

"La, la, la, not listening —"

She rolls her eyes. "Very funny." He realizes he's starting to crowd her a little and adds a bit of space as she continues, "I've got this whole scenario all planned out. We've got some kind of all-hands meeting, so just about everyone's around. And then you come in and announce that —" she lifts her hands to outline an imaginary banner "—  _ Detective Jack Davis _ has actually been your long-running performance-art piece, and you appreciate everyone's patronage, but you've now … I don't know, proven your point or paid off your muse or whatever it is that makes artists stop doing things."

"Performance," Jonathan repeats. "Art piece."

"Yes. And then you  _ stop _ all that and just act like yourself at work. You know,  _ this _ , the person with the wits for all the snark and sarcasm."

Managing the two roles can be tricky, especially today, but he doesn't know why she thinks there's some huge external difference. She's worked with him for a very long time, so she probably just notices subtle distinctions most people wouldn't. She knows what his sarcastic smile looks like, but honestly, even if she hadn't pulled him out here for a break, he doubts anyone else would have noticed.

Maybe that's what the whole announcement idea is about. Maybe it's her silly-pretend-scenario way of being kind, to keep him from having to know just how long it would take anyone to notice if he simply stopped playing the fool without saying anything.

"It's not about performing," he says.

"I wish it was," she replies. "I'd actually feel better if I thought you were doing it because you  _ wanted _ to, even if it was just to laugh at everyone for falling for it."

"I'm not — it's not to laugh at people, but that doesn't mean I don't want —"

"Don't you ever get tired of it? I know it's all a show, and I get exhausted sometimes just  _ watching _ you. Don't stage performers complain about eight shows a week? You've been running yours every workday, sometimes all day, for years. Since before we  _ met _ ."

Of course he gets tired of it. But he does it for a reason. "So, how about that sportsball game?"

"That homestand against Baltimore was pretty bad," Tonya says promptly. He loves that he doesn't have to be subtle about subject changes with her and she doesn't take any offense. "The Sox lost each one of their games while you were under. Obviously you getting zapped was bad luck. You're not allowed to do that again."

"Not planning on it," he mutters. Dammit, crowding again. "I'm pretty sure they lost the game before that, too, by the way. And speaking of meaningless correlations,  _ Goodridge _ is not what broke the Curse, what is actually wrong with you."

She grins. "Eighty-six years without a title before it. Three out of ten titles since, including the very first one after. Baseball is all about superstition. Maybe the sports gods are really pleased about marriage equality."

He definitely ought to have a better answer for that than simply quoting, "That's not how any of this works," but he's not at his best today. And then the word  _ equality _ rattles loose another memory, making him wince. "I am so sorry I implied you just weren't smart enough to avoid all that  _ girls-can't _ crap." He should have paid better attention to her reaction at the damn time, but he was too distracted learning how much he hadn't noticed about what Mary Ellen had gone through.

Her smile at that is just a little pinched. Yeah, she did hear it that way, dammit. "You were waving the family flag. I get it. And I didn't even have to be the one to school you on it."

"Katie just explained what I'd missed, not that I'd insulted you. I never meant that. The school administrators loved Mary Ellen, probably because they figured she was free advertising, and I just always thought that made her untouchable. But that's not what I  _ said _ ." As Katie told Emma, there's no excuse for not paying attention to how his words affect others. And … honestly, he can't swear he didn't actually think something that terrible on some level, back then. He knows he's flawed, but he hopes he's at least better than  _ that _ now. "I really am sorry."

Her smile levels out. "And you worried there might be anything you didn't apologize for. Thank you, and I forgive you, and we're good. Okay?" Which means she thinks he's going a little overboard.

She forgives him for far too much. The least he can do — and it's pretty damn  _ least _ — is not make her dwell on it. "Actually, now that I'm thinking about some of our conversations, I'm realizing you slandered me about something."

She gives him a worried glance. Oops, she thought there was a chance he was serious. He must not have gotten the tone quite right.

"I do  _ too _ own a single decent pair of casual shoes. And you know it, because you grudgingly allowed that they were marginally acceptable."

"They almost were," she admits, "back when you got them. Which reminds me  _ those _ could stand to be replaced by now, too."

"Yes, for my many marathon moments. I just walk around the city and occasionally wander some woods." He wanted a sibilant word for  _ walk _ , to go with  _ city _ , but all the ones that came to mind were too artificial.  _ Moments _ was weak anyway. At least Emma was creative with  _ fjords _ . "They're fine. WALL-E would be so disappointed in you." Or maybe not, actually. Maybe WALL-E would be happy to be given something to do, the way Emma thought Jonathan liked sorting the spices.

"Wait, they made you watch Pixar? We were '70s-and-'80s kids! We grew up on those cheap Saturday morning cartoons. There's no way you were prepared to handle that much animated angst. You sure you don't want to take some time off to recover?" There's the faint trace of an honest question in that, using silliness as a cover to make sure he really is okay more generally.

"It's fine. I was seventeen, not seven. I'm only a  _ little _ permanently emotionally scarred by the lonely wanderings of the only surviving creatures in a  _ post-apocalyptic trashscape _ ." There's a little more honesty than he really intended in his answer. Maybe it really is just that he didn't have the right background, but man, those scenes got under his skin. "They don't give us enough Disney-trauma leave for me to blow it on this." And again with the crowding.

"Yeah, they're pretty stingy. I did take a shower this morning," she adds, a little irritated.

Yeah, he did overcorrect there, and he was way too obvious about it. "Sorry. Just trying not to crowd you."

"You know, I always thought you had an unusually large personal-space bubble."

"I do, with strangers," he agrees. "About six feet is good, all directions. Maybe eight." That claim has the benefit of being entirely true and yet sounding silly.

She waves at the space between them, not distracted. "I'm not a stranger, so what's this about? Because you weren't doing this when you were younger."

Dammit. He's managed to be subtle about it all this time, and he blows it now. "You do get that people don't always recognize me, right?"

"Gee, no, I've never noticed that. Tell me more."

She's too busy being sarcastic about him to bother picking up the hint, so fine, he'll spell it out. "You don't need people seeing you standing too close to some random guy and figuring you're trying to climb the ladder on your back," he says. He's never so crude with her, but he'd like to get this over with.

She actually stops walking for a second before catching up. "Seriously? We've practically been working over telegram this whole time for that?"

"All it takes is one person with a small mind and an open mouth," he points out. "Or just a desire to stir some shit and an open mouth, honestly." He's run into both, so when she opens her mouth to protest that there aren't many of those or some such optimistic nonsense, he just gives her a look.

She's run into them too, so when she takes a second, she doesn't bother to finish presenting whatever point she'd intended. "They do generally recognize you," she says instead. "Eventually."

"Yes," he says slowly, "so then they just decide you're too stupid to know better." He is  _ way _ overstepping. "Dammit. Sorry. I know I shouldn't be the one telling you this. You know this stuff. You just … haven't really worried about it since our first few months together, and I wanted to make sure you didn't have to." He liked that she felt comfortable enough to stop worrying about it, and it's been a small price to pay to keep things that way. "That's the only reason for the yardstick treatment."

"... Yardstick?"

"Yeah. From high school." But she's just giving him a confused look. "Teachers would carry a yardstick, and if they saw you standing near someone of the opposite sex, they'd come over and make sure they could fit the yardstick between you?" He doesn't actually hold himself precisely that far away from her in all cases, since relative positioning is what really matters, but it's the same general concept. He's got to get back in practice with keeping a professional distance anywhere they might be observed, which means anywhere outside their homes. "And if they couldn't, they'd smack you with the yardstick until they could?"

Tonya shakes her head. "I swear. I don't know whether I'm more disturbed by the casual violence that seems to crop up in every Catholic-school story, or by the fond smile you all get when you tell these stories."

He wasn't smiling fondly. Maybe she doesn't know his sarcastic smile that well after all. And besides. "It's just a yardstick. It's not like it's thirty lashes and five viewings of  _ Sharknado _ ."

Speaking of disturbingly fond smiles, the mention of  _ Sharknado _ puts one on her face. Her taste in movies is legitimately terrible.


	25. Cop Modes, Outbound

They reach the coffee shop they like to use as an excuse for their occasional brief desk escapes. Tonya pays with a glare at Jonathan, and he doesn't bother to fight her. What he owes her isn't going to be settled with one coffee purchase.

They go outside again, but as they start heading back, he finds himself avoiding their reflection in the first window they pass. He makes himself look, but his eyes keep trying to pull away, like they're flinching or something. He sighs. "Hang on." He sets his coffee down on the stone plant-retainer-thing next to the sidewalk and digs some ibuprofen out of a pocket.

"Migraine?" Tonya asks quietly.

"... I don't think so. I don't know. Better safe." He's learned that the hard way, and if he jumps on things fast, he can usually stick to over-the-counter stuff. "And don't worry, I know I need to speak up if anything weird happens. I think I'm just having a little trouble readjusting to my own reflection, something like that. I'm giving it some time to settle down. This is just in case. You didn't have to buy more of this stuff, by the way. You know I carry. The unit cost on those little bottles is terrible."

"I figured it was cheaper to buy a bottle of Advil than it was to staff and equip the archeological expedition I would've needed to find anything in your pockets," she says with a smile.

Jonathan considers the pills in his hand. He kind of wants to give Tonya a couple, to reimburse her for the ones she gave him, even though he knows precisely how inane that impulse is. "I shaded my answer on the money question, by the way. Sorry about that. It wasn't  _ just _ that I couldn't have a job."

"It was also the surprise medical bills?" By the way Tonya says it, she hadn't particularly put that together yet but isn't exactly shocked.

"Yeah. There were real questions about whether college was still an option for Katie and Jamie, even with scholarships. Things worked out, but … it was pretty tight for a while, and it was my — it felt like my fault." It was his fault, but saying things like that just makes people feel like they have to argue the point.

"Yeah, that makes sense. But … Jack. You didn't actually have to tell me that. And I'm glad you felt like you could when you'd barely even met me, but you didn't have to tell me the first part, either. You don't owe me your privacy. You know that, right?"

"I …" He doesn't think that's what he's been doing, but he's glad she's making sure he understands. "Yes, ma—"

She coughs to hide a snicker while he sighs.

"I'm impressed you made it this long," she says. "But you're gonna have to squash that if you don't want to piss off the lieutenant."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, this time entirely on purpose. She just grins and waits while he finally downs the ibuprofen with a swallow of coffee.

Which is still too hot, really. He removes the lid so it will cool faster as they walk.

"You know it's supposed to hit 80 today," she says. She keeps saying she doesn't understand how he can drink hot coffee in the summer, but she drinks iced coffee in the middle of the winter, so she's got no room to talk.

"Yeah." He's not excited by the forecast. He picked this jacket three days ago, when it was cooler. But he's endured worse heat/clothing combinations. "By the way, I'll have you know I wore a t-shirt yesterday,  _ without _ a sweatshirt. Elbows right out there in the open for all the world to see."

Tonya just scoffs. "Pics or it didn't happen."

"Nice try." He's guessing Katie has pictures or video of him from yesterday, from one of the parents in her kiddie class, but she would definitely check with him first before letting anyone else see them, even Tonya. Probably even Mark. "But I really did. I'm glad you checked — honestly, I am — but the sleeve thing is just that I don't like feeling exposed. Literally or metaphorically."

"Hmm. Well, I'm glad that's all it is, then. I was thinking, though. That walk you mentioned. If it was shortly after your birthday, wouldn't that have been in the dead of winter? I'm guessing not-New-York isn't all  _ that _ much more temperate than here."

"Oh." He thinks he knows what she's getting at. "I never really  _ liked _ winter before that, but … it's possible I didn't  _ hate _ it quite so much before then, either. I don't know. Maybe." Because yeah, what he remembers of that walk was pretty miserable, and yeah, he really hates winter now.

"So, the Mets, huh?" she says leaving the prior topic there but making him lose a bet he'd made with himself. "I know you follow the Sox now, but they weren't your first thought. Though I guess the Mets  _ could _ still be an inherited thing and you're actually from … Fargo or something."

"I have relatives in Minnesota," he says, in Cousin Bertie's accent to show how  _ completely different _ it is from his, "but no, I'm not from there, and I'm definitely not from  _ Fargo _ . The Mets were more-or-less our hometown team. Or, well, the Yankees, but … ew." Jonathan's not entirely sure his mother would have married a Yankees fan. Granddad would have had something to say about it, at the very least.

"If you're not from New York, that doesn't leave much," she points out. Huh, maybe he didn't lose that bet, because she's working it out, but she still isn't  _ asking _ . "And if you're touchy about it … is it a North Shore/South Shore kind of thing?"

"If New York City is one of those, wouldn't the other have to be … I don't know, L.A. or something? And no, I'm not from L.A., either."

"Hm. Springfield/Boston?"

Which would kind of be more like upstate/city, as far as Jonathan can tell. "More like ... Providence/Boston, I guess. Do Providence ...ers? Providence-ites? Providencians?  _ People in Providence _ — care if other people think they're from Boston?" He's never particularly noticed.

"So, not Long Island or New York state, but both New Jersey and western Connecticut could fit that. I mean,  _ maybe _ Vermont, but they're probably more Sox-or-Yankees, right? So I'll rule that out for now. And your sister said your grandfather was  _ up here _ , which doesn't fit Vermont anyway." She either doesn't consider eastern Pennsylvania near enough or doesn't think to consider it at all as she ponders her next question.

Which is still, for some reason,  _ not _ "Where are you from?"

He gets it, though. He does tend to dodge direct personal questions, instinctively, even from her. And he honestly does appreciate how hard she works to let him have some privacy, even for something as innocuous as a hometown. She's giving him plenty of room to shut her down directly, which he generally wouldn't, or to change the subject, as he pretty much always does. But by taking it to such an extreme, she's kind of crossing from respect to mockery.

He sighs. "We could keep playing twenty roundabout questions, or I could just mention that our version of North Shore/South Shore was North-or-South Jersey." It's honestly not secret. It simply hasn't come up.

She glances at him — partly surprised, partly grateful that he's willing to tell her — but then narrows her eyes in mock suspicion. "And should I ask which one you are?"

"North, of course." She puts her fist out, and he bumps it with his own in meaningless-geographical-label solidarity. "I'm not  _ touchy _ , though. Just surprised you couldn't tell the difference."

"Because I'm not  _ from _ there, so I can't hear the subtle distinctions, any more than someone not from around here could tell the difference between Southie and … Charlestown or something, except I'm realizing as these words are coming out of my mouth that you probably  _ could _ right away, couldn't you."

"Well, yeah. Because they're different. I mean, younger-me didn't know enough about the area to peg you for originally-from-Lynn specifically —" she kind of twitches at that "— but he — or, I mean, I — or whatever — could definitely tell you weren't from Boston proper, long before you mentioned it."

She mutters something he doesn't catch, or possibly something not composed of actual words. "Fine. You're totally not insulted at all if someone calls you a New Yorker. And you absolutely did not make a face just now." Oops. "But you  _ always _ sound Southie — or, well, nowhere-particular, around Mark, but other than that."

"Nowhere-particular? That's not — that's not a thing." But she honestly doesn't seem to know what the accent is. "It's southern-New-England broadcast news." Which is a constructed thing and not tied to any one specific place, sure, but that doesn't make it  _ nowhere _ .

Mark doesn't like his own natural accent, or Jonathan's, or Southie, or possibly any specifically identifiable natural American accent. It has something to do with growing up smart in the Deep South. Jonathan doesn't really know the details. He just knows how Mark reacts to his voice and how he's adjusted it over time.

"Huh," she says, considering his answer. She really didn't know. Weird. She's met Alisa several times over the years, and she can see her on TV a few times a week. "Okay. But leaving that aside, you even sound Southie when you're drunk.  _ Especially _ when you're drunk."

"Where do you think I learned how to drink?" he asks. "I was already living up here when I turned twenty-one. Granddad was pretty firm." It's been a while since he's had reason to slip into Granddad's Southie-tinged Irish accent. "'The world's enough drunk Irishmen already, Jonny-lad. You'll learn your limits or you'll answer to me.'" He slides his accent on to full-bore Southie. "So he took me around to all the Druid Roses and Paddy O'Mumblingtons and Flanahanashanrahans he could find and made sure I knew exactly where my limits are. Southie basically  _ is _ my natural accent for being drunk."

Which he avoids most of the time. He's worked  _ very hard _ to refine his inhibitions. And being drunk doesn't make him feel any better, it just helps him not give a shit about hurting. That is rarely a good idea.

"I don't think it works that way for most people," Tonya says, and he has to remind himself she means accents, "but I actually buy it for you. The rest of the time, though, if New Jersey isn't some deep, dark secret you're trying to hide?"

He shrugs a little and goes back to his default work accent. "It just … fits. People expect the Irish-Catholic Boston Cop to be from Southie."

"Yeah, the Irish-Catholic Boston Cop from Jersey would totally harsh your whole ninja vibe. I get it."

"I'm not a ninja," he says wearily. His preference for going unnoticed seems to bother her sometimes, and she handles it by joking that he's some kind of stealth master.

Then he scrubs a hand over his face, trying to clear a new thought back out of his head.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just — my brain's still all scrambled up." Frankly, his brain is  _ usually _ pretty scrambled up, but it's little more chaotic than usual today.

She's more worried than she needs to be. "How so?"

The easiest way to explain is to subject her to the nonsense he's dealing with. Why does his brain decide to mix stuff up like this? It's hard to hold the accent for the whole thing, because it  _ doesn't fit _ . "Uffda! You have insulted my honor! I am a master of the five ways, dontcha know."

She actually sprays her coffee a little, and he has to take a drink himself to keep from grinning in victory. It's  _ hard _ to make her do that.

But then she stops cold. "New Jersey. Close enough to New York to be salty about it. On 9/11 — you never —"

It's the anniversary, so of course that would be on her mind. "I was a little worried about Chris," Jonathan admits. "He works for the commuter rail. Not usually at that end of things, though. And there was a tiny chance someone I knew might have gone into the city that day, but none of them were  _ flying a plane out of Boston _ that morning." Her husband, the father of her nearly-year-old child, had been. Of  _ course _ she'd had a better claim to panic that day than he'd ever had.

And yeah, he'd been grateful for the distraction that helping her had provided, but his worries were far too paltry in comparison to offer her the same grace.

"That doesn't mean —" she starts, but then she stops and takes a deep breath. Releases it slowly, carefully. Starts walking again.

Well, more like storming, but at least they're moving.

"One day," she says finally. "One day you won't be able to find an excuse for putting yourself dead last, and I will fucking expire of shock."

He just rolls his eyes. He has no idea why she's determined to see him as some kind of martyr, but he's never been able to talk her out of it, and his wits are in no condition to try today.

At least she's not censoring herself around him anymore, and he barely twitched this time.

Despite her irritation at him, she's a good sport and arranges things so she can stick around through the end of his shift. Knowing she's there helps him concentrate.

And then, just before they break for lunch, she suddenly mutters, "Dammit. Princeton." Because she's finally realized she already had enough information to figure out where he's from once she decided it was down to New Jersey versus Connecticut, but she didn't put together that Mary Ellen was attending Princeton  _ and _ helping him out all the time until just now. Jonathan remains staggered at just how much  _ work _ Mary Ellen put into helping him, but at least she wasn't having to cross New York City all the time for it.

He is a little surprised it took Tonya this long, and she's obviously kicking herself. But … no, that's not fair, because he cut her off just when she narrowed it down. Why  _ did _ he jump in then, rather than either bothering to answer ages earlier or letting her finish figuring it out? He distracted her, but she was pretty much already there and would have worked it out on her own if he'd kept his mouth shut.

He's pretty sure that he  _ thought _ he was getting tired of the questions and didn't want to shut her down by changing the subject again, but he's not always clear on his own motives. Was he actually just making a play for undeserved openness credit?

He was so worried over the last few days that he would be awful, and he really kind of is, using her to make himself feel better like that. Holding back even the pettiest information — is that just so she'll be  _ grateful _ when he jumps in to admit something she's on the verge of deducing herself? But he was treating her much the same way in his younger-brained state, too, desperately trying to hide how little he deserved her attention and concern, so … at least this particular bit of awfulness isn't  _ new _ . Yay?

It's a little late to try to fix fifteen years of reticence, though. Dumping all his secrets and privacies into her lap would just make her uncomfortable at this point, like when he clarified the money thing. If it didn't all just bore her into a stupor, that is. There are reasons most of it just doesn't come up in the first place.

He's done everything he can think of to encourage her to think of her own career, without success; she's made it clear that she's sticking around, and he's been too selfishly grateful to push as hard as he probably should have. All he can do is try to be less guarded about the meaningless shit like his hometown — which, come to think of it, he never actually did name, dammit — when she does show an interest.

Regardless, she doesn't seem annoyed at him anymore, which is a relief.

She does watch him a little suspiciously to make sure he actually likes his food when they pick up lunch, even though he  _ ordered it himself _ , so he eats it glacially slowly on the walk back, as much to mess with her as to avoid making her think he's hate-eating it. It's fast food, and he does regret a little that he's stuck with it instead of Katie's fridge — or his own — full of  _ good _ food, but it's decent.

The review of all this paperwork lets him see where a couple of interviews might get one of their cases moving, so he suggests Tonya try to get to those tomorrow. He'd rather do them himself, honestly, but she can certainly handle them, and he doesn't want to risk slowing things down just because he's been benched. He's sure she would have seen the opening herself, but at least his pointing them out now might save her a little time.

She was so, so nice to him the entire time he was impaired, telling him things he's good at and downplaying his weaknesses. Unfortunately, that just makes him all the more aware of them now — his reliance on instinct over procedure, his lack of education beyond high school, his persistent struggle to write coherent reports, the post-apocalyptic trashscape that is the state of his paperwork in general. The Superfund-level toxicity of his reputation to her career.

He gets why she didn't bother to bring that stuff up. He was a teenager only very temporarily, so it's not like he could have learned and grown and improved from a more accurate performance review. She has to deal with his flaws every day, but at least at his current age, he can apologize and try to do better instead of just getting  _ morose _ about it.

All he brings to their partnership is translation for a few languages and a break from interview work, which she really does find tedious — and right now, thanks to being stuck on desk duty, he can't even offer her that. She asked that he trust her to have her reasons for staying. He tries to, but she really does deserve better.

As for today, well, he at least makes a dent in his backlog of paperwork, with only occasional pauses for displays of witless confusion when other cops stop by. He's actually able to leave at a reasonable hour for once.

He takes the T home, a little jittery with that strange tired-wired combination desk days always give him. Any one of three different lines gets him to the right place, so he grabs the first car he can actually fit into, happy to accept a slightly longer walk at the other end in exchange for the earlier exit from the station.

He keeps an eye out for trouble, as usual, but he's more than a little annoyed to find himself halfway hoping for something to happen. He's not an adrenaline junkie and he's never been a head-smasher, but … just a quick scuffle, maybe, a minor flare of tempers, a brief face-off for him to wade into the middle of and separate.

Maybe it's just pent-up energy from riding a desk all day. Maybe he's missing the simplistic clarity of his teenage "let's settle this behind the school" mindset. Whatever it is, it's not helpful, and nothing happens anyway.


	26. Negative Space

The T line Jonathan took leaves him at the furthest of the three stations near his apartment. The advantage of the resulting walk, much of it uphill, is that it lets him work off some energy. The problem with the walk is that it's a little hot out, so he's feeling pretty sticky by the time he reaches his building. But when he unlocks and opens the door of the apartment, he finds the air conditioning is on. Neither of them usually tends to care much for it, but the apartment gets a lot of afternoon and early-evening light, so it gets warm, and apparently Mark just didn't feel like dealing with that today.

Mark … has apparently not wanted to deal with much lately. It's a good thing Jonathan got all that practice in straightening up by sharing a room with Chris, because Mark also tends towards clutter. The dishes situation, seen across the table and through the passthrough into the kitchen, looks pretty dire as well, which makes sense if Mark has been stress-cooking. Three days of that, of no one patiently moving things from "where they end up" to "where they belong" … 

Well, it's not a big deal. Jonathan will fix it later. The dishes are his job, and they ought to be a lot worse after three days of what Mark gets up to when he's worried, really. Mark has been trying, and he's been under a lot of stress between the start of term and Jonathan getting himself zapped like that, and household stuff is harder for him anyway. And Jonathan is the one who cares if the apartment looks at all organized. It would be really unfair to expect Mark to maintain a harder standard when Jonathan isn't even around to care.

He'll deal later. It's fine.

The table is just inside the door, to the left, and Jonathan eventually finds a spot on it to leave his keys where they probably won't get swallowed by mail and paperwork. He goes ahead and leaves his shoes by the door, since he doesn't really need them inside.

There are two rooms to the right. Jonathan moves past the guest room/office/library/storage and on to the bedroom. The little living room is right in front of the bedroom, the couch facing the windows and therefore away from the apartment's front door, an arrangement Jonathan has never been delighted by but nothing's perfect. Mark is there on the couch, pretending to be absorbed in paperwork but not doing a great job of that.

But they have rules, and Jonathan needs to deal with one of the very first ones. So he goes on into the bedroom and stores his gun in the gun safe.

Once he closes and locks that, and once he shoves all his "cop" aspects to the very back of his mind, he's officially home. But since he's in the bedroom anyway, he goes ahead and takes off his jacket and tie. He's perfectly comfortable in them, but the jacket is a bit lumpy with all the stuff in his pockets, which makes for awkward embraces. After today's heat, his shirt and undershirt really need to get dropped into the laundry basket, too, so he changes into a t-shirt. He can't get away with a sweatshirt in this weather, so he throws a casual long-sleeve on over, because he doesn't feel like dealing with a lack of sleeves right now.

Then he heads on out to the living room and wraps himself around Mark, burying his face in Mark's shoulder. "Hi," he says, into Mark's shirt. That teenage desire to fold himself into tight shapes and octopus himself around the people he loves never really left him, and it's spiking now, having been so recently renewed.

This is a big part of why he didn't try to race home this morning for a few minutes before Mark had to leave for school, or ask Mark to ask for time off, or tell his own job to go to hell for a while. They need their jobs, and they can't risk them just because he gets clingy sometimes. Now that he's home, Jonathan doesn't plan to leave the apartment again until the morning, and he's going to hold on to Mark for as much of that time as Mark will put up with.

"Hello to you, too," Mark says, aiming for amused but landing deeply in relieved instead. He actually does try to have a nowhere-particular accent, and … well, he tries. But at times like this, stronger traces of what Jonathan can only call "Philassippi" come through. He works his right arm free so he can wrap both arms around Jonathan. "You're really okay?"

The clinginess probably is a bit much. Jonathan doesn't care. He just nods, not bothering to lift his head first. "Missed you."

Mark laughs a little at that, not quite steadily. "I missed _you_. But you didn't really know about me for most of the time, right?"

That's complicated and they can sort it out later. He shifts just enough that he's not talking directly into Mark's shirt anymore. "Miss you retroactively. It's been days and _days_."

"Yes," Mark says, a little shakily. "Yes it has."

He strokes Jonathan's hair, which feels nice. He really does have a thing about Jonathan's hair, and Jonathan's happy to humor him, even though he's pretty sure Mark's kidding himself that there's anything interesting about it. He doesn't mind that the grey is starting to show in a measurable way, but he does regret that it's probably pushing out whatever it is Mark thinks he sees.

"I'm sorry," Jonathan says. "I tried not to." He needs to find some coherence. Today took a lot more energy than he realized at the time, and he's shutting down a little, but that's coming across as childishness, which is _not_ a dynamic either of them wants in this relationship. He sighs and summons a more mature delivery. "I tried to get out of the way. I just wasn't fast enough."

"I never thought you didn't try," Mark assures him. "I know there are people out there who would like nothing better than to revisit their teenage glory days, but I'm confident you're not one of them." He holds back for a few seconds before asking, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He wants Jonathan to want to. He's a scientist. He's a scientist confronting alleged magic. He was brimming with questions even before Jonathan was affected.

But Jonathan needs time to try to figure out anything interesting to tell him. He's got pretty much nothing at the moment. He wants to give Mark anything and everything, but he just _can't_ right now. "Maybe later. But … mostly it was just confusing and embarrassing. Sorry."

"I'm just glad to have you back now," Mark says. It's not quite true, because he's still curious, but he means it sincerely all the same.

Jonathan wishes he could let go and drift for a while. He doesn't want to think. But Mark will want to make dinner soon, which means he'll need to be able to get up. So Jonathan should just actively enjoy this while he has it.

"Thank you for the soup," he says. "And from Katie and Tonya, if they didn't say."

"They did," Mark says, a smile in his voice.

Jonathan has been pretty sure they were all talking to each other throughout this little adventure, by phone or text or email or … agony-aunt column, who knows. But it suddenly feels weird to _know_ that, even just for this one perfectly normal reason that actually has nothing to do with him personally.

And they've all spent so much time on him, Katie and Tonya directly, Mark more shut out but still cooking and worrying and keeping communication open. Jonathan doesn't actually know which one bothers him more, the exposure of being their shared project or guilt for burdening them with that project. Exposure or guilt, Scylla or Charybdis.

Both are long familiar. So which one gets its claws into him this time?

"I just wish I could have done more," Mark says. And guilt it is.

They talked it over beforehand, just in case, because Jonathan knows his luck. They both agreed there was no way either of them would be comfortable meeting even in the best of situations, which this honestly was. Just numerically, the chances were far greater that Jonathan would have been changed to an age when he would have been _offended_ by Mark and what having Mark for a spouse would have implied about him. Mark should never have to deal with that kind of rejection from any version of his own husband.

At seventeen, Jonathan was a little better, but only in comparison. Not nearly as much as Mark deserves.

But Jonathan knows exactly how he would have felt if Mark had been zapped. How useless and _frantic_ he would have been, how desperate he would have been to find _something_ to do to help.

At least Mark's hobby is well suited to that. Cooking is partly for himself, his way of channeling worry, but it also produces a thoughtful gift to pass to others. What could Jonathan have done in the reverse situation, emailed a few pictures of trees to Mark's mother? Reorganized the kitchen Mark wouldn't be around to use?

"You deserve a real kitchen." Jonathan tripped over this apartment, a lucky find when he was craving light and privacy. He hadn't cared about the kitchen as long as it had both a fridge and a microwave. And then Mark moved in, and then they stayed.

They should have moved somewhere with a real kitchen long before now, but Jonathan's been attached to this apartment, just because it's the first place that was his own, and he hasn't really wanted to look. Selfish, as always, and Mark hasn't pushed it.

But Mark says, "This kitchen is fine. Yes, it's small, but that makes it easier to navigate."

… Which is a fair point. It's hard for him to stand for very long, and a larger kitchen would mean a lot more walking around to get stuff.

But it still means he can't do some of the cooking he'd like to do, or it's harder or it takes longer or it's just more awkward. He's a great cook and he deserves better.

And maybe he'd be _able_ to walk easily around a decent kitchen if Jonathan had just been paying a little more attention, been a little faster, looked the right way just a moment sooner. Been better.

"Why do you care about the kitchen all of a sudden?" Mark asks, not realizing Jonathan has moved on to this old topic. And Jonathan can't tell him, because Mark insists all that wasn't his fault, and he really doesn't like talking about it anyway. He shouldn't _have_ to talk about it. And he of _all people_ absolutely shouldn't have to soothe _Jonathan's_ feelings about the whole thing.

But no, Jonathan has to make everything about himself, because he's so damn selfish. Which makes him feel even more guilty.

And Mark's question is still hanging there in the growing silence.

Jonathan sighs again, glad his face is hidden. The kitchen isn't actually his fault, not really. Not anymore. They've already talked about moving, already decided together not to. "You know how you hate when I feel guilty about things that aren't my fault?"

"I'm … not happy about that, yes."

"You would've hated younger-me, then." But that's the wrong thing to say, dammit, and Mark tenses.

"I would not have hated you," Mark says.

Jonathan pulls back. "No, I know, I said it wrong." Because that sounds mature. "I mean, my phrasing was suboptimal." Why the hell can't he _calibrate_?

He scrubs his hands over his face. The clutter is making static seep into his brain and he's had to be too many different people over the past day on too little reserve, but he damn well needs to pull himself together. Hasn't he already put Mark through enough? "Sorry. I just _meant_ to say that I was worse about it. That's all. And it's kind of sticking with me a bit. So I just wanted you to know I might be a little worse about it for a while."

"Do you think you should talk to someone about that?" Mark asks, and hey, look at that, Jonathan is halfway across the room.

"Jonathan —" Mark starts to say tiredly, because he thinks Jonathan has some kind of macho thing about therapy or something, some meaningless prejudice.

"Touchy subject," Jonathan blurts. He's pacing. He can't look at Mark. His hands seize on a trailing edge of his shirt and twist themselves into the fabric, tearing-tight. "That's a _really touchy subject_ right now."

He didn't even know until this second. Tonya asked about his twitchiness around therapists and that just made him even more twitchy, but she didn't threaten him with it. And then the lieutenant offered later but it was just an offer and Jonathan could hide behind every cop's cool disdain and the lieutenant understood that perfectly and that was the end of it.

But Mark still doesn't really like when he's a cop at home, and he doesn't like the manly contempt either, so Jonathan doesn't have anything to hide behind now and it's stupid but he's _panicking_.

"Never mind about it, then," Mark says, concerned and apologetic. "I'm sorry. Come back?"

But Jonathan can't. He just needs to get a fucking grip but he _can't_.

There's no actual _room_ left in their living room, coffee table - TV - bookshelves - couch. Only space for a few short paces. He moves around behind the couch and that's marginally better, the faint outline of a hallway from bedrooms past table past kitchen to bathroom. Up to _several_ paces each direction.

"Jonathan?" Mark turns to keep an eye on him, increasingly worried. Because Jonathan doesn't usually let himself get wound up like this in front of him. He channels it to long walks outside, when walking is enough. Other things, when necessary, none of them here.

Mark isn't usually the _cause_.

It's not Mark's fault. It's not Mark's fault because he doesn't know, he just thinks therapy is some nice innocent useful thing. He doesn't know because Jonathan doesn't _tell him anything_ . "I talk and talk and _talk_ but I don't _tell_ you things," so why is he saying this now? And it's not even true, "Some things, but not — there are big ones, I don't —"

"Just stop a second, okay? Please?"

But he can't.

But Mark sounds scared.

_For_ him, not _of_ him. If it was _of_ him he would be out the fucking door, because he can't be that, can't let Mark fear that for even a second. But this isn't that.

He should leave anyway, because Mark shouldn't have to worry _for_ him either, but that would just make him worry too. "Sorry, I'm sorry — I make everyone _worry_ so much, I'm sorry —" There's hardly any room to move in here but he can't _stop —_

"It's _okay_ , just —"

He's not some wild animal in a cage. He's not going to start throwing himself against the walls. He's not _that_ crazy. But there's no room, but he promised he wouldn't just leave, but there's _no room_ — "I know, okay?"

He's never wanted to explain this. He'd rather just accept Mark's mild frustration. But Mark knows there's something there now, and Jonathan is suddenly terrified that Mark will keep pushing and he might — he might —

"I know, I _know_ you think it's just … masculine posturing or something, macho games, just because I'm all screwed up about being — about —"

It's a word. It's just a _single fucking word_.

"— About _being gay_ ," he forces out, and it nearly chokes him and there's almost no air but he manages to say the big scary word without even having to get plastered off his ass first, sound the fucking trumpets. "But I _had_ to hide that and I really _believed_ all that garbage about perversion and going to Hell and alone forever, okay?"

Yes, he's a big damn cliche, good for him, Mark was right that he's full of hypocritical shit. Case closed.

But there's more coming out behind that. Relentless driving energy suddenly diverting from his feet to his mouth.

"And then they wanted inside my head and I _had_ to keep them out so they wouldn't see all that —"

okay, that's enough, shut up now

"— and they thought I was suicidal —" 

shut up, Mark didn't know that, _shut up_

"— but I wasn't, I'm _not_ , but —" 

good fine that's enough now SHUT UP 

"— but sometimes I — sometimes I think I'm — I'm ... crazy ..."

God _dammit_.

"— and sometimes I'm not sure I even _exist_ and I _don't want anyone in there_."

… what.

The _actual fuck_.

Was that.

  
  
… he … doesn't ...

  
  


… he's frozen.

  
  


Everything's frozen. Shocked motionless.

The ringing absence of sound after an explosion.

He can't move. Maybe ever again.

"Don't run."

The soft words start a spiderweb of cracks across the unmoving world. A subtle shift in the stillness. Ice just starting to crackle before breaking.

Mark is moving towards him slowly, the only motion in the room. One crutch, the other hand out, like he's approaching a wild animal. And that's Jonathan, panic-stricken, wide-eyed, still panting slightly from his race up Mt. What The Fuck Is Wrong With You.

"Just stay. It's all right. Just don't run." Because he knows Jonathan.

Because Jonathan has surrounded himself with people who know him, in the desperate hope that means there's anyone to know in the middle.

But he's always been negative space, defined only by what he's not.

… But that's not true. That's messed up.

… But … isn't it?

All damn day, flinching away from his reflection because his brain is so damn _useless_ and doesn't always bother to distinguish between literal and metaphorical.

And because the difference might not matter anymore anyway. If "magic" can temporarily erase thirty years, if it can expose so much of what he hides … maybe it can expose more.

And maybe it can expose _less_.

Maybe one of these times he'll glance at a mirror and there won't be anyone looking back.

"What am I?" he asks, interrupting Mark's careful, soothing repetition.

Mark hesitates.

(All those pauses, all those years, people searching for something nice to say about him and failing —)

But it's just because he doesn't understand the question. It's not his answer. It's _not_.

(He'd thought, all those years ago, just a few days ago, how much that empty nothingness felt like an answer. He'd tried so hard to believe it wasn't, it _couldn't_ be. But only silence, only _silence_ —)

"Just something," Jonathan pleads. He's starting to shake. "Tell me something I _am_ . Tell me I'm — I'm _anything_ —"

"A police detective?" Mark ventures, because he knows how proud Jonathan is of that. "A nature photographer?" His eyes search Jonathan's face, trying to understand.

_Nod or shake_ . Those do matter. He makes himself nod a little, because Mark can't read his mind and it's _not fair_ to expect him to. And he's not trying to hide, _can't_ hide, that he needs — he needs —

"A loved and loving husband, brother, uncle."

No, those are right but they're also wrong but they're _so important_ but — 

Mark switches tracks. "A morning person. Um. A clutter conqueror?" Which is his version of _neat freak_.

Nod. Yes. Those are better. Specific little things. Even though it makes no sense.

"A soup lover. A rapid language-learner. A secret lover of _terrible_ puns."

Yes … yes, those are ...

"A light sleeper. A … late-blooming tie connoisseur."

… Ha.

"A flashy-infielding fan. A lake-vacationer." Mark is getting faster, as if he's starting to understand. "A foliage-spotter, an autumn-preferrer. A blanket-stealer, a coffee fiend, a good singer when you think no one is listening."

Little scraps Jonathan scrapes into a scarecrow of self.

"A good man. You're here. You _exist_ , Jonathan. _You_ exist."

He's watching Jonathan carefully, so worried, so sad. Reaching out gingerly across the few inches that separate them to touch him lightly, so lightly, because he knows sometimes Jonathan can't stand to be touched and sometimes he desperately _needs_ to be.

Jonathan manages to summon a smile — small, shaky, but at least his own. "If … if I had to have a breakdown … I guess I'm glad it's with you?"

And then he's crying. And he actually _does_ have enough macho posturing bullshit to be ashamed of it, thanks for asking, but there's nothing he can do to stop it.

Mark maneuvers him back to the couch somehow and then, when this turns out to still be a needs-touch day, holds him as he gets it over with.

It feels like it takes years, but then, it feels like years are flooding out of him, all those times he was first in line to deny himself. All the work he put into erasing himself, just so he wouldn't have to listen to the ways he wasn't-as-good-as.

Everything he hasn't wanted to admit even to himself, hasn't even wanted to realize, finally exposed and inescapable.


	27. Curtain

Jonathan eventually manages to run out of tears. Mark leaves for just long enough to bring him a glass of water and then sits with him in companionable — not silence, but quiet.

"Thank you," Jonathan says finally, once he feels like he can function again.

Mark kisses the side of his head. "Feast or famine, huh?" he says, gentle and fond and worried. Jonathan manages a little laugh at that, shaky but nothing worse. He knows Mark gets frustrated sometimes by just how much Jonathan keeps from him, how hard Jonathan works  _ not _ to ask Mark to support him emotionally.

A lot of that is because a lot of what gets to Jonathan comes from his job, and he needs to keep that out of their relationship for his own sake just as much as for Mark's. But most of it is because Jonathan has always worried that the sheer weight of his needs will crush Mark or drive him away.

And some of that worry is justified, because there are things Mark doesn't feel qualified to deal with. He can be very particular about areas of expertise. He talks up therapy partly because he respects that therapists can address things he can't.

And Jonathan has always been sure, deep down, that what's wrong with him — what's  _ really _ wrong with him — isn't something a word-nerd chemistry teacher is going to feel prepared to handle.

Mark sighs. "I don't want you to feel like I'm going behind your back. I really think I need to talk to Tonya about this."

Mark is a scientist. His thought process is pretty clear: he knows something has changed to make Jonathan lose it like this, he knows the whole zapping thing is the most obvious factor to consider, he wants as much information as he can get quickly, and he knows Tonya is his best source right now. It's fair, and it  _ sucks _ , because Tonya deserves a damned break already.

Jonathan is pretty sure Mark is on the wrong track, but what the hell does he know.

"Here, okay?" Jonathan says after a few seconds, his way of agreeing. "Don't … um, go be … private about it." He scrubs his face again. "Ugh, can't word good."

Mark smiles briefly at that but then asks, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I think I might need to be involved." He does actually have language skills, and he needs them now, but the energy they take … normally, it's not much at all. In the face of this, it's going to cost him.

Mark looks like he's not sure that involving Jonathan in his conversation with Tonya is a great idea but also knows it really should be Jonathan's decision. He pulls out his phone and makes sure Jonathan can see his screen. He texts  _ SOS _ but then follows that with  _ It's not an emergency, but it's  _ and then he dithers for a bit before choosing  _ important _ over  _ urgent _ .

Jonathan pulls his knees up and hugs them close — not as easy and not nearly as comfortable as that's been over the past few days, but still one of his preferred ways to feel more secure. He wants to drift, maybe while Mark reads questionable science offerings from his students aloud, but he doesn't trust himself to be able to focus again if he lets go now.

Mark stays with him as they wait, clearly worried and wondering but not pushing, maintaining light contact.

It only takes Tonya about five minutes to call. Mark answers and starts asking her whether anyone knows the rate of post-incidence traumatic breakdowns, and then whether there's any correlation between age-of-regression and traumatic history, retreating into science as a way of processing his own stress.

Jonathan says, "Speakerphone." He's got to clean this up before it goes too far.

Mark hesitates but then switches the phone over and holds it between them.

Jonathan says, "Hi there. Don't panic." He drops all the bullshit, the no-problems speaking tone, the accents, everything. Whatever comes out, comes out.

So to speak. His brain is still a wise-ass.

"I'm alive. Not a risk to myself or anything like that. Not a risk to anyone else." Mark forgets, sometimes, what Jonathan and Tonya hear from questions like his. What they  _ have _ to hear. "I crashed pretty hard. Turns out I shaded my answer on the therapist question, too, except that's another one I didn't know about myself."

"Do you need me there." She's brisk, efficient, serious.

"No. But … you should both know what's going on. The therapy thing is … it's pretty messy. But this isn't because I got zapped. Well. Maybe it is, a little. But that didn't cause it. It's more like … that stirred things up. It made me start thinking about a bunch of stuff I've been avoiding. Because …"

It's just talking.  _ That's easy, remember? Remember how easy you thought just-talking was, even though you already knew sometimes it wasn't? _ He was so full of it, even all the way back then.

"Because I knew I wasn't real."

Tonya sighs. "I thought you gave in on that a little too easily."

"Not like that. Sort of. I don't know. You made good points, and it's not like I thought I was a hologram or anything." He wants to make a joke about clones. It's a deflection. He shoves it aside. "But at the same time, everything about me really was just an imposed, temporary state, and I knew it. I wasn't an actual modern teenager with classes and a home and a life that I could affect by what I did. In  _ some _ respects, I honestly wasn't real. And … once that thought got stuck in my head …"

He swallows. His hands tighten into fists. "And then people keep  _ pushing therapy _ at me."

He doesn't look at Mark. Can't. He doesn't know if Mark is feeling guilty or defensive, if he's taking offense because one innocent suggestion doesn't deserve all this.

If Jonathan looks, he'll seize the excuse to deal with whatever Mark's feeling instead of making himself admit what's actually wrong with him. He'll shove it down again and pretend everything's fine and they deserve better.

"The reason I'm so …"

He doesn't want to say any of this. But he needs to.

"It's not because I'm a guy and  _ guys don't _ . It's not because I'm a cop and  _ cops don't _ . It's not because I'm still tangled up about the sexuality stuff. It's … it's not even because I think they'll take one look at how my brain works and say I'm crazy. It's …"

They deserve honesty.

"Well. Okay. Really, it is a little bit about all that stuff, too." He's always been too good at lying to himself, and sometimes lies are best built from pieces of truth. Several simple reasons for things. "But …"

He takes a deep breath and makes himself keep going.

"But really it's because I'm … scared that ... they'll get past all that, pull away all the borrowed accents and smiles and  _ personalities _ , all the posturing, and they'll see … they'll ..."

His voice is starting to shake, but Mark strokes his hair gently, and that helps.

"They'll make  _ me _ see that there's nothing there in the middle."

His brain starts offering up all kinds of helpfully bizarre imagery as illustration, as distraction, but he pushes it away.

"That I'll have to look and see that it's all just empty space. Because I spent so  _ long _ not being good enough and not mattering and not being noticed, and … at some point hiding from that turned into erasing myself, and … and I don't know what's left."

Mark hugs him, despite the awkward angles, and whispers, "You're here. You matter, so much."

It's sweet of him, and … yeah, Jonathan does need to hear it.

But that's not really the problem right now. It was just a starting point.

But … he gave Jonathan little pieces earlier.

The way Jonathan feels about the height of autumn, when the leaf colors are peaking and it's not quite too cold yet — he's always had that, and it's only about how it makes  _ him _ feel, not about projecting an image to anyone else. The way that feeling drove him to learn how to use a real camera properly … he's no expert, but he's honestly pretty good for an amateur, and he's happy to share the images he creates but they're really for himself, just because he likes them.

His appreciation for slightly adventurous soups and quietly pleasing neckties and nail-biting double-plays that have shortstops twisting like cats in midair. He enjoys all of those things simply because they make him happy.

The childish delight he gets from bad puns, but also the sly pleasure he takes in subtle ones, or really in appreciating any kind of wordplay. The thrill he feels when he starts to understand how wordplay works in other languages. There's no profit in any of that, just his own amusement.

His own language skills, because he does pick up languages faster than the people he cares about do. Tonya's been studying Cantonese since she was about twelve, and Mark dove into studying Hebrew and then Yiddish when he went to college, and Jonathan's first real exposure to any of those languages was through the two of them. But he absorbed their vocabularies, and then he found other ways to clean up his accent and syntax and keep getting better, because he's … actually good at doing all of that.

Those are all his. Those are all  _ him _ , little pieces thereof.

"This isn't new, is it?" Tonya says. "I don't just mean the last few days. You were already wrestling with some of this as a teenager, weren't you? The first time around." Because she saw him those first couple of days, and she knows him, and she's good at what she does. She wasn't as fooled about what he meant when he called himself  _ nothing _ as he assumed she would be.

"It's not new," he confirms. "It's just a lot …  _ more _ now. Or maybe it's just been scarier, because I couldn't look for so long." He knows why Sarah needs to know the shape of her fears, why the unknown is so much more terrifying. "Like one of your movies," he adds, because his brain really does never shut up. Tonya likes absolutely crappy sci-fi, especially after a bad day, and she doesn't like horror but sometimes they overlap. She's told him all about the power of the unseen monster compared to cheap rubber suits and CGI.

He wants to make a joke about ketchup-smeared bunnies, from that particularly terrible movie she subjected him to. An illustration of just how unscary monsters can be when they can simply be seen, maybe to convince himself. This isn't the time.

He sighs. "But I've seen it now. And … and it's not the end of the world."

Because he's not the cheap kind of chocolate Easter bunny — oh, joy, his brain will not be stopped, will it? — with the hollow core. Maybe there's not  _ much _ in there, but there is something. Mark will help him figure out more, as will Tonya and Andy and Katie, if he can bring himself to ask any of them.

That will be so,  _ so _ hard, because he's never wanted any of them to know. He's always been so ashamed of how little there is to him.

But they all love him. They've all proved that over and over again. They each have their reasons for keeping him in their lives when it would have been so much easier not to. He may not trust or respect himself, but he can damn well be better about trusting and respecting  _ them _ .

Even about this. Even about their judgment of  _ him _ .

"I'll work on it. And … you're both probably going to hate this next thing."

Because he knows them, but he also knows himself, at least within the narrow categories he's ever been willing to expose to his own view. He knows this one thing about himself for certain.

"Tonya, I know you've had to deal with a lot from me for the past few days, and I appreciate it, and I'm sorry it happened. I'm also sorry that I'm going to ask you for something else. If you can, I need you to meet me before work tomorrow. Same coffee place as today."

Mark sits back and frowns, about to interrupt, so Jonathan pauses to tell him, "Let me finish." Back to Tonya. "And then, unless you see something that makes you shut it down, I need to go to work like normal tomorrow."

Mark wants to argue  _ so badly _ but he's holding himself back. Barely.

"I need structure," Jonathan tells them both. "Not just  _ want _ , not  _ like _ .  _ Need _ . If I know I have work just like normal tomorrow, I can function. I think I'll probably fall apart if I don't."

Mark subsides, looking deeply conflicted. "You're right, I hate this plan," Tonya says. It's not a denial.

"Noted. But it's just desk duty —" Mark relaxes at that "— and I  _ hate _ desk duty but it's still structure. It's a relatively safe option, and — " he really doesn't want to offer this, but he has to "— it'll stay desk duty until  _ you're _ sure I'm safe for regular duty, Tonya."

They're both cops, but more importantly, they both care about being  _ good _ cops. Public safety has to outweigh his own needs and desires, and he knows for a fact that he can trust Tonya to keep him honest about this.

And there's another thing he doesn't want to offer but has to. "And ... if we do this, I'll close the show."

Mark doesn't know what that means, but Tonya makes a small noise of surprise.

"That sounds like I'm offering it as payment. I'm not. I do owe you, and I'll owe you more, I know. But … I need to stop all the bullshit."

Mark makes a slight face, involuntarily. He disdains crude language, and the part of Jonathan that is and always will be a repressed Catholic schoolboy finds that charming.

"Sorry," Jonathan tells him, "and I'm sorry for the next thing, too, but if I start filtering now … it's all or nothing." Aiming back at the phone, he tells Tonya, "That act is fucking me up. It's been fucking me up the whole time, but I thought I needed it. I have to stop, for me. But I'll do it where you can see, for you."

"Looks like Christmas is early this year," Tonya says. "Except I  _ really _ doubt it's a good idea for you to be making rash decisions right now."

"Double-check me on it in the morning, but you were right. As usual," he adds with a small smile. But the smile is slipping and he lets it go. "It is exhausting. I'm  _ so tired _ of it. And I thought it was harmless, but it's  _ not _ . I should have done this years ago. I have to stop erasing myself. I have to stop before …"

No more bullshit.

"I've been scared there's nothing left." It still feels scary even to say that, but it's not really much of an admission anymore. He's exposed himself to two of the four people he trusts, half of his entire world, and they're still here. They're still listening.

"I honestly don't know what is," he continues. "But I think my job is part of it. I think my job  _ has _ to be part of it, because if I don't even have that …"

It was the first thing Mark mentioned. It's the first thing anyone was ever proud of him for. It's the first thing of his own, the first thing about him not based on his relationship to someone else, that he's ever been proud of himself for.

"It's  _ mine _ ." He still has that, the fierce, selfish, possessive pride in this one thing. "It's something I'm sure of. And I'm tired of just spitting on it to make other people happy."

He runs out of energy then and lowers his head down onto his knees.

But Mark hugs him again and softly says, "Okay." And from the phone, Tonya says, "This is going to sound weird or condescending or something, but I don't mean it that way. I am sincerely proud of you right now. Even if you decide not to go through with it. It's just huge that you're able to say any of this. Good job, seriously."

He almost says something, automatically. He stops himself because it's yet another deflection, all the silly jokes and digressions are deflections, and that's just another form of bullshit.

Except …

Except he actually does kind of want to say it, a little for Tonya, but also for himself.

Maybe there's a reason his brain still won't shut up about this, specifically at this of all times.

He raises his head. "Huh."

"What?" they both prompt, Tonya more warily.

"I figured out something else I am."

All the silly commentary is avoidance, sometimes, but that doesn't mean it's not still  _ him _ .

"I'm … kind of a smart-ass. I use it for deflection, but … I actually like being that." God help him, he honestly does.

Mark looks amused. Tonya says, "I hesitate to ask what brings you to  _ that _ revelation."

"Just that you're right again. Even evil clones need to know they matter."

She laughs, mostly just surprise, because it's such a small joke. But it's still a laugh, and he likes that. He likes that he can get her to do that.

_ He _ likes.

It's somewhere to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the folks who have followed along. Special thanks to those who have left comments along the way; they inspired me to expand several things in later chapters. My thanks also to those who encouraged me to go ahead with this; it's been strange but a lot of fun.
> 
> I've created a series for this, because I have one weird quasi-sequel, along with a one-shot earlier in the timeline. I don't know how much else I'll end up writing, if anything; I'd like to wrap up a few threads from this and I'd really like to end up writing something *happier*, but, well. I don't want to commit to anything and then fail to follow through.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want any advice about the level of polish herein, or if you want to know what this story even is, please keep reading below:
> 
> History: Once upon a time, I planned out what I thought would be a police procedural with a romantic subplot, and knowing my writing speed, I set it a couple of years in the future: 1997. As may be evident, though I have a bunch of fragments written, I never really got anywhere with it. I was wrong about the genre; my first-installment plot was a mess; society has changed significantly since then; and some of what I did manage to write should never see the light of day. But I've kept playing around with the characters in my head, lo these many years, around fanfic writing and then a writing drought.
> 
> Why this story: I don't remember now why I decided to play with the idea of picking the characters up near-to-now and deaging one of them, fanfic-style, but suddenly everything just clicked. I was writing again! Sure, it was a pseudo-fanfic of a nonexistent canon, but … well, why not roll with that? It was more important to me to have fun and get something done than to spend the rest of my life trying to turn this into commercial fiction.
> 
> Market vs. "fanfic": This is not marketable, and it would take a lot of work I'm not able to put into it in order to try to get it anywhere near marketable. By sticking to the fanfic format, I gave myself permission to let certain things slide. (For example, police units/departments/precincts are not so ludicrously static as they would have to be for my timelines to work, regardless of what most TV shows would have you believe. I can just throw magic at a non-magical canon. Structurally, the characters spend a lot of time talking about "canon" events and characterization. Even the title is a problem for commercial fiction, copyright-wise. And so on.) Again, the goal was to have some fun and finish something.
> 
> Ways this story is not "Good Writing": The balance is very, very "tell" over "show", and while it feels awkward to me and was noted by my alpha reader, I don't want to spend forever wrestling it into anything different. Chapters are defined more to aim for manageable sizes than for actual plotting reasons, though I have tried to make the transitions work. The resolution also took a hard turn on me, and I'm not sure whether the story ends at quite the right point.
> 
> Inaccuracies: Since I wanted to write this for fun rather than for market, I didn't dig too deeply on certain areas of research. Inaccuracies may remain. Some are knowing and willful, such as the static and ill-defined police unit/department/precinct my characters work for, but I tried not to get anything glaringly wrong. If anything is wrong and can be fixed by simple editing, please let me know.
> 
> In summary: I don't know if this will appeal to anyone but myself in the end, but I'm posting it just in case anyone out there might find it interesting. I hope it's enjoyable regardless of the above. Thank you for visiting.


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